Tales Untold
by R-I-C-A-R-D
Summary: In relating the tale of the Champion of Kirkwall to Seeker Cassandra, Varric may have...neglected to mention a few unimportant details. Here the author speculates on what Hawke and company may have seen and done beyond what was told in Varric's tale.
1. Chapter 1

In relating the story of the Champion of Kirkwall's rise to glory, Varric may have...neglected to tell Seeker Cassandra a few unimportant details...

Æ

"Bethany?"

The young mage's head jerked up in surprise as her brother spoke; she hadn't heard him enter the Chantry. _I don't even know what I'm doing in here _she thought. Since arriving in Kirkwall a few months earlier, bound into a year-long period of indentured servitude thanks to dear Gamlen, she hadn't had much time to think about Carver.

Running errands for Athenril and doing her best to avoid the attention of templars made dealing with his death easier; mainly because she wasn't really dealing with it. Avoiding painful memories, yes. Slipping out of the family's Lowtown house in the middle of the night to escape Mother's quiet sobs, yes. Dealing? Not so much of that. Eventually guilt – survivor's guilt mostly – drove her to the Chantry. The family never had a chance to give poor Carver the farewell he deserved. Instead, they'd been forced to leave his body in the blight-ravaged lands beyond Lothering.

Bethany had arrived at the Chantry after the bulk of the faithful had said their prayers to the Maker and Andraste; she didn't want to draw unnecessary attention. The Hawkes hadn't long been in Kirkwall when they began hearing whispered conversations in the Hanged Man about mages in the Gallows made tranquil...seemingly for no real reason. And those were mages _inside _the Circle. If the templars learned of an apostate in their midst, they likely wouldn't hesitate to force the brand on her, cut her off from the Fade and her emotions. Though she'd often dreamed of not possessing magical talent, of 'being normal,' the thought of having the Rite of Tranquility forced on her..._I think I'd rather be dead._

Kneeling before the altar and the imposing statue of Andraste, Bethany had prayed silently for Carver, for her mother and brother...even for Gamlen. Presently, she rose and faced Garrett, absently drying her eyes. "Is something wrong? Is it Mother?"

Garrett shook his head. "Are you all right? I've been trying to find you."

Bethany smiled, "Yes, I hadn't expected to find myself here, either." She sighed. "I was praying for Carver."

Her elder brother nodded, "I understand. I miss him as well." After a moment spent observing their surroundings – the Chantry here was much grander and more ornate than the one in Lothering – Garrett Hawke spoke quietly to his sister. "We have work."

Bethany nodded and, as she walked towards the doors alongside her brother asked, "Who does Athenril want worked over this time?" Something about her brother's appearance – the dark beard or more likely the greatsword – made him Athenril's go-to person whenever she wanted somebody straightened out.

The 'work' they were doing for Athenril – calling it work was more palatable than slavery – often left Bethany feeling conflicted. She liked to think of herself as a good and decent person; she donated to charities trying to help Ferelden refugees when she could afford to yet she was often called upon to collect 'protection money' from people barely able to afford it. "Tell me again why you decided Athenril was a better choice than Meeran?"

Slightly ahead of Bethany, Garrett pushed open the Chantry's large, heavy doors. He squinted against the bright sunlight. Outside now, he replied, "Something about Meeran struck me as...shady. Call it a hunch."

Bethany shook her head. "Right. Shady. And you'd describe Athenril _how_ exactly? I understand we're in a difficult position here but sometimes I wonder..."

The swordsman shrugged. "How would I describe Athenril? She's the type of person who'd ensure you'd end up with a knife in your back if you failed her in some way. We should get moving." Without waiting for a reply, he strode off, forcing Bethany into a jog to catch up.

"You didn't tell me what the job was," Bethany pointed out as they headed down the Viscount's Way. "Debt collection? Shakedown? Pick up some slightly illegal cargo? Oh, I hope it's illegal cargo."

Garrett smiled. "An elf from the alienage owes Athenril some money. Gambling debt."

Bethany sighed. "Gambling. Always with the gambling. We should round up everybody in Lowtown and point out Gamlen to them. _This is what happens when you can't pay your debts! You're forced to give up your family's estate and live like a beggar!"_

Her brother laughed. "Don't forget selling your niece and nephew into indentured servitude."

Æ

If Lowtown was to Kirkwall the low-end of town, then the alienage was to Lowtown the _really _low-end of town. The majority of the city's elves congregated around the large tree dominating the centre of the sprawl of buildings. A few 'lucky' elves lived in Hightown, servants of the nobility there. Bethany wasn't so sure the trade off was worth it – living in a nice mansion but kept under the thumb of humans and treated worse than stray dogs. A male elf wearing clean though patched and faded clothing confronted them. "What's your business here, shem?"

"We're looking for Milos," Garrett stated, arms loose at his side.

The elf sighed, "Andraste's holy knickers, what's he done _now?"_

Smiling slightly, Bethany put in, "He owes some money. To Athenril."

Compared to the likes of the Coterie, Athenril was a relatively small player in Kirkwall's criminal underbelly but she had a reputation, especially among other elves. The elf turned and pointed out a house outside which a large tabby cat was sunning itself. "In there. And give Athenril the alienage's regards."

"Thank you," Bethany answered. "We will."

Dodging around the resident elves and doing their best to ignore the distrustful glares, Bethany and Garrett arrived outside Milos' abode. The cat roused itself as Bethany knocked on the door. Perhaps sensing impending physical violence, the tabby rose, stretched and wandered away. "Smart cat," Bethany murmured. "Hello?" she called, rapping on the door once more.

The closed door slighty muffled the reply from within, "Whozit?"

Garrett replied, "Athenril sent us."

"Don't know any Athenril," the owner of the voice replied.

Garrett sighed, "This will go a lot smoother if you let us in, instead of us shouting at each other through the door." The Ferelden slapped the palm of his hand on the wood for emphasis. Bethany turned and surveyed the comings and goings of the elves behind them; most went about their business though a few eyed her with suspicion. Though Knight-Commander Meredith's increasingly harsh treatment of mages was well-known, Bethany didn't believe the elves of Kirkwall's alienage would sell her out; the templars were a symbol of humankind's dominance over elves. Still, the longer they lingered here, the worse the outcome would be.

Sounds of movement from the other side of the door returned her attention to the task at hand. A faint scraping of metal on metal as Milos turned a key in the lock presaged his appearance. The elf opened the door just enough to peer through the gap at his visitors. As he spoke, the smell of cheap liquor wafted on the air. "C'mon in, then."

The Hawke siblings waited as Milos opened the door wide and stood aside to let them in. The house had the much the dimensions as Gamlen's home and was cleaner. A rickety-looking table and chair set of splintery wood stood in the main room; an opened bottle of alcohol sat on the table. Milos himself was dressed similarly to the elf they'd met at the alienage's entrance. Neat house, clean clothes. _Obviously takes pride in himself and his home, alcohol aside. Gamlen could learn a thing or two from him_ Bethany observed.

Milos waved a hand at the chairs. "Can I offer you a drink?"

Garrett eyed the unlabelled bottle and shrugged. "What's in it?"

Their host poured a measure into a dull pewter goblet and downed it, coughing. He wiped his mouth. "Don't rightly know. I get it from a fellow down at the docks. All I know is, it burns nice and good on the way down and doesn't make you go blind. Yet, anyway."

"Why not?" Hawke shrugged again.

"It's not even noon, yet!" Bethany replied as Milos took a second goblet from a shelf and poured another shot.

Garrett and Milos clicked glasses together. "It's noon _somewhere _in Thedas," her brother pointed out and downed the liquor. After a moment he coughed, eyes watering. "Andraste's bosoms, that's strong."

"Aye, isn't it just?" Milos smiled and offered another shot.

"Before you get my brother so drunk I have to drag him home by his ankles, perhaps we should get to the reason we're here?" Bethany suggested.

Milos reeled slightly on his feet as he replied, "Why's a pretty young thing like you working for Athenril in the first place?"

"Trust me, you do not want to know," Bethany answered even as her brother interjected, "Gamlen got us into indentured servitude. Truly a prince among men is our uncle."

Milos' blinked slowly, glassy green eyes widening. "Heh, and I thought _I_ was bad off."

Garrett pulled out a chair and sat heavily upon it, laying aside his greatsword. "Bethie does have a point though." His voice hardened, "Athenril's gold, Milos. Where is it?"

The elf slumped into his seat. "Don't have it, obviously. Why else would Athenril have sent you after me? If I had the gold, I'd have paid up already."

Garrett sucked in the inside of his cheek, making a _tck _sound. "That's a problem. See, Athenril, she's getting tired of people, namely folks your good self not paying their debts Makes her look weak."

Bethany laid a gentle hand on the elf's slim shoulders. "Please, Milos. Help us to help you."

Looking up at her, Milos answered, "I would if I could, I really would. I got no desire to have my head kicked in as an example. Trust me."

Garrett sighed, stroked his beard. "Tell you what we'll do: I'm prepared to pay your debt myself."

Milos' eyes widened. "You'd do that? For an elf? Why?"

Bethany explained, "We're just trying to get by here in Kirkwall, avoid attention from...certain people. You're not a bad man, Milos, we can see that. How much money do you owe Athenril?"

The elf shifted nervously on his chair, fingers toying with his goblet. "Two sovereigns," he eventually answered.

Bethany blinked. "All this trouble for _two_ sovereigns?"

Milos glared at her. "Girl, when you grow up dirt poor in a place like this, two sovereigns makes a man feel like a king!"

"I suppose you're right. I'm sorry," she said quietly. She turned to her brother, "Do _we_ have two sovereigns to spare? I spent my last few silvers on some silks for Mother. I thought it might cheer her up."

Milos chuckled, "Ain't you a good one, looking after your mother." He paused, seeming to look through the walls of his house at another place and time. "I had a mother once."

Garrett looked at Milos with raised eyebrows. He told Bethany, "I still have some coin from that job on the docks last month. The one that went bad?"

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Don't remind me!"

Milos drew himself back into the conversation, eyes narrowed. "What's the catch? What's in it for _you?"_

"On the face of it, nothing," Garrett began. "But _I'll _sleep better tonight if I don't have to hang you upside down from that tree out there." He paused a moment. "I'll pay your debt. In return, you keep us informed of any goings on around town. Athenril has her own network of informants but I like the idea of somebody working for _me."_

Milos appeared to ruminate on this for several moments before coming to a decision. "So, all I have to do is tell you if I hear of something interesting? That's all?"

Bethany glanced at her brother who nodded. "That's all," she confirmed.

Milos raised his goblet. "Well, you have a deal. And you might as well know now, word on the street is a bunch of dwarves are setting up to take on the Coterie. I'd watch my back around town late at night. A _lot_ of bodies are going to wind up in the harbour soon enough."

"So," Bethany said brightly, "Business as usual then!"

Æ

Garrett tossed the drawstring pouch containing the gold to Athenril. The elven smuggler deftly caught the pouch and weighed the contents. Seconds later, the pouch disappeared inside her clothing. "Nice work, Hawkes," she said, leaning back against a wall opposite Hightown's Blooming Rose. "You know what today is?" she asked, lips tilting up in a sly grin.

"Take-pity-on-refugees-fleeing-the-Blight-and-release-them-early-day?" Hawke suggested.

Athenril laughed loudly, drawing disparaging glares from well-dressed men and women passing by. "Ah, I'm going to miss your wit when this is done, Hawke. But no. Today marks the start of your fifth month of servitude. You're almost half-way there."

"Time flies when you're having fun," Bethany replied dryly, prompting another laugh from Athenril.

"Doesn't it just?" Hawke added.

Smiling, Athenril sighed, "Take the rest of the day off, you two. As for myself, a noted nobleman is about to find himself in a...compromising position in yonder brothel," Athenril nodded at the popular establishment. "I imagine he'd pay well to prevent word of his indiscretions reaching the Viscount."

"What if he doesn't pay?" Bethany inquired. As she watched, the doors of the Blooming Rose opened, admitting a pair of young men clad in templar plate-mail. "Oh...the Knight-Commander won't like _that."_

Athenril smirked, "They _always _pay, love. One way or another." The elf flicked a glance at Hawke, "You'd do well to keep that in mind."

Hawke ignored his sister's questioning look. "We'll be on our way, now," he said, gently ushering Bethany away.

On their way to visit Leandra and allay fears of her children spiralling into a life of crime, the Hawke siblings encountered Aveline Vallen patrolling the district. The auburn-haired guardswoman halted and nodded to each in turn. "Hawke, Bethany. Keeping out of trouble, I trust?"

Hawke offered a wry smile. "Mostly."

Aveline shook her head, "Since you threw your lot in with Athenril, I suppose I shouldn't have expected an honest answer."

"And how is life in the guard treating you, Aveline?" Hawke asked, silently praying to Andraste that his duty-bound acquaintance wouldn't decide to take him in for his part in any number of slightly illegal goings on.

"Well enough. Why?"

Hawke shrugged, "Just making conversation. That _is _what people usually do when they aren't killing darkspawn or upholding the law." Aveline's green eyes flashed a warning; Hawke made a peace offering. "I have some information you might find interesting."

"Go on," Aveline responded, armour creaking slightly as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"We've heard of a group of dwarves making a push against the Coterie. The guard may want to increase their patrols at night. From what we've been told, things are going to get bloody."

"Moreso than usual," Bethany added.

Aveline nodded, "Thanks for the tip, Hawke. I'll take it up with the captain though I doubt I'll get anywhere. I've been pushing for weeks to have the patrols increased but he won't listen. Especially not to a Ferelden."

"The way the locals talk, all us filthy refugees are taking their jobs and stealing their women," Hawke replied. "Sometimes I feel like pointing out that it was a _Ferelden_ who ended the Blight. A whole _bunch _of Fereldens, in point of fact."

"Hmm," Aveline answered. "I should continue my patrol. Thanks again, Hawke."

The former soldier-turned-guardswoman cut an imposing figure as she continued on her way. "She looks strong," Bethany quietly observed, "But I think she misses her husband terribly."

Brother and sister watched Aveline until she melted into the crowds. Hawke put an arm around Bethany's shoulders in a quick one-armed hug. "Come on, let's go home. Perhaps we can show Gamlen how to use that scrubbing brush."

**Author's Note:** As I played through Dragon Age II, I began to wonder what Hawke and company may have seen and done during the intervening years of Varric's tale and decided to write a sort of 'untold story' purely for the hell of it. More to come later.


	2. Chapter 2

"I've never been inside a tavern before," Merrill commented as she entered The Hanged Man, trailing slightly behind her new acquaintances. The elf of the dales didn't know if she should refer to them as 'acquaintances' or 'friends.' Was it too early to call Hawke and the others friends? Would she seem strange to the others if she were to ask them, she wondered. _Probably_ she told herself after a moment. _And you're rambling._ Merrill laughed softly; even inside her own head she rambled.

This shemlen city of Kirkwall was so strange a place, so busy and chaotic. There were _so many _people! People everywhere! All of them hurrying from one place to another, barely pausing to greet passers-by, if they were greeted at all. "They seem terribly rude, don't they?" she observed as people pushed by one another. "Oh, I don't mean to imply _you're_ rude!" she hastened to add.

"Don't worry about it, Daisy," the dwarf smilingly answered. Varric, his name was. Already Merrill quite liked him; he seemed fond of telling stories and she found his relaxed manner calming. "Everybody's like that in Kirkwall," he added.

Passing through the imposing city gates for the first time, the huge tortured-looking statues looming over her had almost unnerved her. Was it too late to leave and return to her clan? No, she had decided. She couldn't go back, the Keeper was too unreasonable. Just inside the gates, Merrill had stopped dead and simply looked around at the walls so high they seemed to claw at the sky.

Though her clan had passed by shem cities before, they rarely ventured too close to one or remained in one place for too long. Great were the injustices the shems had heaped on her people. Merrill wondered how many more of the people had come to places such as this Kirkwall. And how many had made it out alive. Perhaps seeing the distress in her face, Varric had pulled away from Hawke and the others to speak with her. "You have that same look on your face I see on dwarves the first time they set foot on the surface. Like they think they're about to fall into the sky."

Merrill shook herself. "That seems like an odd thing to worry about. I'm more worried about all of these walls. What if they fall on somebody?"

Varric laughed though it was without malice. "Kirkwall's stood for generations, Daisy. You don't have to worry about that."

Resuming her wide-eyed walk through the streets, Merrill had replied, "What should I worry about?"

Varric shook his head ruefully. "Only everything else."

The Hanged Man seemed to embody Kirkwall and its people: the tavern was loud with overlapping, often shouted conversations between patrons. Did nobody speak in a calm and quiet manner? Or was this simply the way people _were_ in a tavern? "Is it always like this?" Merrill enquired of the shemlen woman named Isabela.

"You'll have to speak up if you want to make yourself heard, Kitten," the woman answered, voice cutting through the surrounding conversations.

Merrill made no reply; her finely attuned sense of smell fought to identify the invisible miasma inside the room. She sniffed. "What is that smell?"

Isabela turned to her with a smile. "That, Kitten, is the overlapping smell of cheap ale, old sweat and the faint odour of desperate men down on their luck." She sighed to herself. "There's nothing else like it." Isabela tilted her head as a loud moan of pleasure came from the area behind the bar. Her smile broadened. "And _that_ is the sound of some lucky soul having terribly delicious things done to them."

Merrill wrinkled her nose. "Delicious?" she asked doubtfully, "Is the food here that good?"

The Rivani woman fell laughing against the bar between a pair of off-duty guardsmen. Ignoring the leers of the half-besotted guards, Isabela pushed herself upright, still chuckling. "Oh Hawke!" she called. The warrior turned to her, eyebrows raised. "This one's a keeper," she said, nodding to Merrill. "I like her already."

The dalish elf smiled tentatively, aware she'd said something amusing but unsure what. Then it dawned on her as a man left the area behind the bar, rearranging his clothing. "You weren't talking about the food were you, Isabela?" she guessed.

"No, but I'm sure _something_ was swallowed," Isabela replied and winked at Merrill.

"Isabela!" Bethany gasped, face turning red.

"What?" the buccaneer asked, wide eyed and seemingly innocent.

At a nearby table, Aveline frowned at Hawke. "I don't know what you see in her." After a moment she added, "Aside from the obvious."

"Give her a chance, Aveline," Hawke quietly responded as the woman in question arrived at the table with Merrill. The women were a study in stark contrasts: where Merrill was fine-boned and slender, Isabela was taller and...the one descriptor Hawke's mind kept returning to was buxom. Isabela was buxom and seemed to enjoy flaunting it.

Hawke thought he understood why – the majority of people who'd tried to kill them in recent times were men. Men whose attention invariably wandered away from the business of defending themselves in favour of sneaking a glance or three at Isabela's womanly curves. Isabela's womanly curves were usually the second last thing men saw in such situations. The last being the flash of steel as she sunk a dagger into their vitals.

Hawke rose from his seat to pull out chairs for both Merrill and Isabela. Not that the latter needed anybody to pull out a chair for her or open a door but Mother had been firm in ensuring her sons behaved with proper decorum around women. "Thank you, Hawke," Merrill replied as she sat. Now what should she do? Perhaps order a drink? Would a shemlen-run establishment even let her buy a drink? The dalish elf rubbed her forehead. "Creators, this is difficult."

"What's wrong?" Bethany asked, concerned. Merrill seemed awfully sweet and naive but some of the elven magic she'd used on Sundermount looked to Bethany awfully like blood magic. Bethany wasn't sure it was safe to continue associating with her. Sweet and naive or not, if the templars even suspected the use of forbidden magic, especially forbidden _apostate_ magic, Bethany was certain they wouldn't hesitate to kill the elf and any other mages with her. Just to be safe.

Merrill looked around the others at the table – Hawke and his sister, Varric, Isabela and the woman clad in plate-mail. Even seated in the tavern, Aveline looked alert for any trouble, keeping her longsword close at hand. Varric too noted Aveline's stiff posture. "Don't you _ever_ relax?" he asked.

Aveline looked at him briefly. "I am relaxed."

"Yes," Isabela put in, "She even sleeps in her armour. It's why she hasn't had sex in so long."

"Shut up, whore," Aveline shot back.

Hoping to avoid a bloodbath at his table, Hawke cleared his throat. "Ladies," he said, "Not in front of our new friend." Isabela shrugged and gestured to a passing barmaid. After the woman had taken their order, Hawke nodded to Merrill, "Is something wrong?"

Feeling pinned and helpless beneath the eyes of so many people, Merrill shifted nervously on her seat. "It's all right," Hawke said softly. "It's safe here."

"Yes," Isabela nodded as the barmaid returned with a tray of ales. "Safe. Until one of the local drunks decides it's his turn to get lucky and puts his hand between your legs."

"Bela..." Bethany sighed. Though she enjoyed the other woman's company, some of Isabela's raunchier tales made Bethany squirm. Isabela raised her hands in mock surrender and drank a slug of her ale.

Merrill took a deep breath of the ale-smelling air and forged on, "I've never been around so many shems – I mean humans before. I don't know how I'm supposed to act or what I'm supposed to do!" She gasped as new thought struck her. "Where am I going to live?"

"In Kirkwall, most elves reside in the alienage,' Aveline supplied.

The term _alienage_ didn't inspire a great deal of confidence in Merrill. "Oh," she answered. "I see."

Isabela shook her head and muttered beneath her breath, "Not yet you don't, Kitten."

"Don't worry," Hawke replied, his voice oddly soothing. He took Merrill's hand and briefly squeezed it. "We won't abandon you."

"That's right, Daisy," Varric put in. "Think of us as a whole new family. And think of _this,_" Varric waved a hand, indicating their surroundings, "As a big adventure."

Æ

"Is it true that you just kept _escaping_ the Circle in Ferelden?" Bethany asked Anders. The mages were part of what was now becoming a weekly ritual among Hawke's companions – a coming together at The Hanged Man to catch up with one another and trade news and interesting gossip.

The former Grey Warden nodded, eyeing the elf over the rim of his tankard. The elf looked back at him, unblinking and seemingly emotionless. Anders knew some of Fenris' history with the Tevinters – he was the escaped slave of a magister. Said magister apparently quite keen to recover his lost property.

Anders understood on some level Fenris' dislike bordering on blind hatred of magic and mages but did he have to keep _looking_ at him like that? Yes, sometimes Anders' outrage against the templars overwhelmed him and Justice wrested control, often with horrendous and bloody results. Anders knew what it felt like to be constantly watched and hunted; did Fenris truly believe _he _was the only one whose life _wasn't_ a stroll through a field of pretty flowers and kittens?

The mage placed his tankard down and turned his attention instead to Bethany. Hawke's sister wasn't yet out of her teens yet Anders thought she possessed a greater understanding of the inherent risks involved with the use of magic than many Circle mages and indeed, the templars.  
>That she had managed to harness her abilities <em>without<em> interference or formal instruction from the Chantry, Circle or thrice-damned templars impressed him all the more. Yet the templars would see her locked away in the Gallows until she forgot the feel of sunlight on her skin just because the Maker had touched her with magic.

_Magic must serve mankind and never rule over him. Andraste has a lot to answer for, _Anders thought bitterly. "Yes, that's right," he answered the younger woman. "Those silly templars, I suppose they kept forgetting to make sure the Tower doors were locked at night."

"You make light of escaping the templars yet the Circle exists to protect you as much as the rest of us," Fenris pronounced.

Anders snorted derisively, "You truly believe that, don't you? We have more in common than you'd like to admit, I think. We've _both_ run from people wanting to control us."

Fenris shook his head. "That's completely different. In Tevinter, the magisters are the ruling elite and everybody else exists only to serve their whims."

"Can we not fight about this?" Bethany interjected. She'd seen what Anders was capable of when the spirit within him came to the fore and was desperate to avert a calamity.

"Fine by me," Fenris replied, resuming his silent vigil.

"Anyway," Anders resumed with forced levity, "I was such a delightful scamp in those days that the First Enchanter persuaded Greagoir I was harmless."

"And yet here you are, opposing the templars. Would your First Enchanter _still _believe you are harmless?" Fenris wondered aloud.

Anders rose to his feet, reaching for his staff even as Fenris rose, hand moving to the hilt of his blade. On the edge of panic, Bethany shot to her feet so fast, her chair overturned with a clatter, drawing the attention of the other patrons. Bethany inserted herself between elf and man, pleading. "Please, don't do this!"

Almost immediately Hawke was by her side, eyes narrowed with suppressed anger. "Is there some problem here?" he asked, voice deceptively casual. He looked each member of the tense tableau in the eye for a long moment.

"No!" Bethany exclaimed, aware now of the lull in conversation as everyone else in the room observed the exchange. She was faintly aware of the clinking of coins as somebody wagered on the outcome. Swallowing hard, she cast a beseeching look at both Anders and Fenris, silently appealing for calm. "Anders was just telling me about his time in the Ferelden Circle!" She relaxed slightly as Anders nodded.

Hawke glanced sidelong at Fenris, "And?"

"And I was just leaving," the Tevinter fugitive replied stiffly. "Hawke," he nodded and left.

Bethany sagged in relief, bracing herself on the table. From a table behind her a man muttered, "Damn it! If that mage had tossed a spell in the knife-ear's face, I'd be rich!" With the lyrium-fueled bar brawl over before it could even begin, the tavern's patrons returned to their drinking.

"Anders, what in the name of blessed Andraste _was_ that?" Hawke demanded, righting the fallen chair. He turned to his sister. "Bethany? Are you all right?"

The younger woman nodded. After a moment's consideration, she added, "I think I need a stiff drink."

"That's my girl!" Isabela said brightly from the bar, "We'll make tavern wench out of you, yet!"

"Anders?" Hawke prodded, pushing the other man back into his seat before seating himself in Bethany's chair, his sister having joined the others at the bar.

Anders sighed. "I know I shouldn't have let him get to me but Maker that elf gets under my skin. He hates the Tevinters? _I _hate the Tevinters! They taint every magic user with suspicion and fear. The slavery doesn't help, either."

Hawke nodded. "I understand but if you start blowing up every time somebody looks at you crosswise, you'll only fuel their fears and give the templars even more reason to clamp down on the mages." Hawke leaned in towards the other man, staring hard at him. "Understand one thing, Anders: I'll not tolerate any risk to Bethany."

Anders nodded and looked past Hawke to the bar where Varric spun yet another tale. "No shit, Rivaini, it really happened!" the dwarf insisted much to the delight of both Isabela and Bethany. The younger woman caught Anders' gaze and smiled. To Hawke, Anders replied, "I understand, Hawke. I find your devotion to ensuring Bethany's safety admirable." Anders offered a wry smile, "Admirable and scarier than an ogre, quite frankly."

Hawke relaxed back into his chair. "So," he began after a moment, "Tell me about this cat of yours..."

**Author's Note:** Probably should have mentioned this from the outset; this is going to be more a collection of unrelated chapters rather than having a story arc. Story arc? What's that? :)


	3. Chapter 3

The Hightown market was quieter than usual, with fewer well-dressed nobles looking down their noses at people, Bethany was relieved to find. The reduced turnout also made it easier to avoid pickpockets, though enterprising young cutpurses were still apt to try their luck, casually 'bumping into' their marks and relieving them of their coin.

As she browsed the market stalls, Bethany kept a firm hand on her coin purse, fingers perspiring slightly in the noonday heat. "You should do what I do, Kitten," Isabela said from beside her as she inspected one of Korval's blades. "'Tuck your purse between your breasts."

Bethany merely smiled and shook her head. Isabela casually reached inside the bodice of her clothing and removed a couple of sovereigns, winking salaciously at Korval as she dropped them into his slightly trembling palm. "You'd be amazed at what you can fit in there," Isabela went on, addressing Bethany but smiling at the dwarf.

"By my ancestors," the dwarven merchant muttered as the women turned away from his stall, the darker-skinned one sliding the newly-purchased blade into the wide sash around her hips. The gold pieces still in his palm felt unnaturally...warm.

As Bethany and Isabela walked – or in the latter's case, strutted – from the market in the general direction of the mansions, the former ship captain observed, "You've been spending a fair amount of time at the clinic."

Bethany glanced sidelong at the older woman, "I've been helping Anders. He could use another healer. Why?"

Isabela clicked her tongue. "Oh and here I was thinking those frequent visits were the result of...adventures in the Blooming Rose." Isabela relented as Bethany's face flushed almost scarlet. How long had she been trying to convince the younger woman to just 'deal with' the virginity issue? The elder Hawke sibling was no help in that area either, striving to keep his sister safe from harm. Isabela thought it was nauseatingly sweet of him...and slightly unsettling. "All I'm saying, Kitten is we all have certain _urges_ and if those urges aren't satisfied...pressure builds up. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Isabela," Bethany snapped. "There has to be more to life than meaningless...sex," Bethany spoke the last word in low whisper.

By now, the pair had reached Hightown's residential district where the city's well-to-do resided, often casting disparaging glares from their upper-storey windows at the lower classes passing beneath. Isabela smiled as she recalled the properly scandalised expression of one Orlesian noblewoman. "Oh! Zhere are _so_ mannee filthee 'arlots on ze streets!"

Hightown really wasn't where Isabela preferred to spend her time; the rough and ready environs of Lowtown and the docks were more her style. However Bethany had expressed a fondness for architecture and because Lowtown couldn't be said to _have_ any architecture, here they were, looking at old buildings. Isabela shook her head as Bethany stopped to observed the stained-glass windows set into the facade of one towering edifice; the sacrifices she endured for her friends. Addressing Bethany's last point, Isabela replied, "I'm sure there _is_ more to life than meaningless sex but Maker it's still fun!"

Bethany abandoned her appreciation of the brightly coloured windows and dust motes dancing in the sunlight. "You've never wanted to settle down with one person?"

Isabela shook her head, "I was married once. I don't recommend it. Love is...painful, Kitten. Just leave it at that."

The mage blinked as she attempted to picture the colourful, ale-swilling ship captain married and fetching her husband's slippers. It made her head hurt thinking about it. "I...really can't imagine you married, Isabela," she finally conceded. Deciding Isabela had seen enough of Hightown for one day, Bethany opted for a path that would eventually lead them to Lowtown. "Neither can I, Kitten. Not any more," the sailor added.

The two friends walked in a companionable silence for a few minutes before Bethany asked, "What about you and my brother?"

"Harmless flirting, Kitten," Isabela casually replied. "Nothing untoward." Her lips curved upward as she added, "Your brother is one of the few men who can drink me under the table. That's...refreshing."

Isabela sensed Bethany tensing as they passed a pair of patrolling templars. The lead warrior nodded politely to them. "Good afternoon, serrah." If not for the taut lines around her companion's mouth, Isabela would have made a reply regarding how much she loved men in uniform; Bethany relaxed only when they could no longer hear the templars' footfalls.

Seeking to lighten the mood, Isabela gently nudged Bethany with an elbow. "So. You and Anders."

"What _about_ me and Anders?" Bethany answered, arching an eyebrow. Her friend had a look in her eyes; it was very nearly the same look Mother had in Lothering the one time she'd tried to find a suitable wife for her son.

Isabela smiled disarmingly. "Well, you spend a lot of time at his clinic and Darktown isn't a place most people go to willingly."

Bethany frowned. "As I said, I've been helping him. He's under a lot of pressure and I do what I can to help."

Isabela nodded, seeming to take this in. "He's not bad looking either, which I bet doesn't hurt."

"Bela, what are you suggesting?" Bethany asked, looking around for more templars. Though the Knight-Commander hadn't yet ordered suspected apostates dragged off to the Gallows in broad daylight, Anders had assured her that day wouldn't be long in coming.

Isabela expanded on her theme, "The constant stubble, that _passionate_ look he has in his eyes, the lure of danger from that spirit or whatever it is. I can understand the appeal."

Realisation dawned on Bethany and the young mage gasped, "Isabela! It's _nothing_ like that! He needs help. I'm helping him."

Isabela pouted, "Oh, don't be like that, Beth. Think about it, there's so much you have in common: he's a mage, you're a mage. Nobody else can understand what that's like, especially the way Kirkwall is at the moment. You could do a lot worse, Kitten."

Coming to an abrupt halt, Bethany glared at the other woman. "There's _nothing_ going on between Anders and I!"

Without waiting for a reply, the young woman strode away, fists clenched at her sides. After a moment, Isabela called after her, "So you wouldn't mind if I bought him a drink, then?"

Æ

"C'mon, Blondie, cheer up! It's not the end of the world," Varric gently chided as he deposited two mugs of ale on the table.

Anders glared back at him but took one of the mugs in hand. "The templars are making more and more mages tranquil every day, Varric! I think I have a right to be upset about it."

The dwarven merchant sat opposite the mage. "I don't mean to make light of things but would it really kill you to stop and smell the roses once in a while?" Varric drank off half his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of one gloved hand. He smiled at the other man, "You and Sunshine seem to be getting along well."

Eyes narrowing, Anders replied cautiously, "She's a sweet girl, Varric and a skilled healer. What are you getting at?"

Varric held his up, palm outward – _nothing up my sleeve_ - "Me? Nothing at all, Blondie. Hawke and Rivaini have been getting along famously but why should the two of them have all the fun?"

"Varric, you can't be suggesting Bethany and I...she's at least ten years younger than I am!"

"Mere details, my rebellious friend," Varric answered, and drained the rest of his mug. Anders was yet to sample his own ale.

Anders shook his head, "I'm the worst person Bethany could get involved with. What woman would want to be with an..." he lowered his voice, "Abomination?"

"That's not really how you see yourself, is it? Even so, Sunshine was there that night with Karl and she didn't run screaming into the street. Though ancestors know _I _was tempted to. Your friend Justice makes Bartrand's worst tantrums look amateurish."

"Which is why it isn't safe for her or anybody to get too close to me. I don't..." Anders sighed, adopting a look of melancholy so intense Varric wanted to smack him. "I care about her, all right? And I don't want to risk hurting her."

Both Varric and Anders looked up as Isabela arrived in their midst, "Oh, how charmingly _adorable!_ Look, sweet thing, nobody is suggesting the two of you run off and elope. Maker knows Hawke would likely hunt down and kill any man who did that to his sister but would it hurt anything to at least _talk_ to each other instead of dancing around the issue?" Isabela grinned wickedly, "Or you could just ravish each other there in the dirt in Darktown. I tried that once. The dirt _does_ tend to stick to certain areas, though."

Anders rolled his eyes, "Oh, wonderful. How many _other_ people have you spilled your guts to, Varric?"

Varric folded his arms across his broad chest. "Now that is offensive, Blondie. I'm a teller of tales, not a spiller of guts. Anyway, Rivaini must have figured things out herself." Varric glanced at her for confirmation; Isabela nodded as she pulled out a chair and sat.

"I'm not having this conversation," Anders said firmly. He glared at Isabela, "With _either _of you."

Moving stiffly, Anders rose from his seat, smoothed down his robes and left The Hanged Man, leaving his untouched drink behind. Isabela and Varric watched him depart, the former claiming Anders' ale for herself. "He's got it bad, hasn't he?" she observed, shaking her head. "It's so...sweet. It almost makes me want to throw up."

"So," Varric said after a moment as he listened for any profitable gossip from the surrounding tables, "What has Sunshine said?"

"About Anders?" Isabela asked; Varric nodded. "She claims there's _nothing_ going on." Isabela shook her head in wonderment, "They're as bad as each other. Ah, young love..." Isabela trailed off as the tavern door opened, admitting a shaft of sunlight and Hawke. The warrior stood in the doorway a moment, gaze sweeping the room until he located his companions. Varric hid a smile as he noted the longer than usual eye contact between Hawke and Rivaini; though the duelist would write off any attraction between them as purely physical, Varric was willing to bet Hawke sought a deeper connection.

The dwarf smiled to himself as Hawke joined them, signalling Norah for more ale. _This will make quite the story some day_ Varric mused.


	4. Chapter 4

"Barkeep!" the rumpled-looking man called, "Another pint!"

"Sod off, Ferelden!" Corff shot back, stabbing a thick finger at the man, "You still owe me for the _last_ three pints!"

"It's three bits to a pint," Norah helpfully supplied, nimbly dodging the groping hands of The Hanged Man's regulars.

"Hey, Norah," one of the addled dock-workers leered at her, reeling back and forth on his feet, "Howsabout you and I..." his next words died as his throat worked, fighting a losing battle to keep down the swill he'd been drinking for the last few hours. Unashamedly, he braced himself on the bar and vomited copiously between his feet. Norah sighed, retreating behind the bar for the mop and bucket. "Sorry, love," the dock-worker apologised as she returned, exhaling ale fumes in her face.

"Barkeep!" the rumpled-looking man called again, louder this time, his strident voice cutting through the usual background conversations. Heads turned towards the man as he rose to his fee, swaying slightly. "I'm the _true_ heir to the Fe...Ferelden throne! In the name of holy Andraste, _get me a drink!"_

"Sod off," Corff repeated. "I don't care if you're the Knight-Commander's shoe-shine boy, no coppers, no ale."

The man claiming to be the bastard half-brother of the late King Cailan slumped back in his seat, staring morosely at his callused hands. Hands that had not so long ago wielded a sword in the service of his homeland, hands that had striven to break the Blight and avenge Duncan. Instead that elven _bitch_ had forged some unholy alliance with Anora, placing her on the throne. That part, the former grey warden could almost forgive. Had he not repeated, time and again _I have no interest in becoming king. I've never wanted to be king?_ And hadn't the elven bitch nodded understandingly; after all, Anora had jointly ruled Ferelden for five years before the Blight and was far more qualified to rule than Alistair.

_That_ part, he could almost forgive. The part of the deal where Loghain was not only spared but offered a place in the Wardens? Oh...by Andraste's flaming knickers, _that_ part he could never forgive. Even now, as he tried to get drunk enough to forget, even for a little while, he could hear the elf's voice explaining, calmly at first, her reasoning. As though _reason_ played any part of it. "Who do you think the armies of man are more likely to follow? A pair of untested wardens, one of whom is _elven_ or the general who threw out the Orlesians? Loghain's a son of bitch, I'll grant you that but even now, he has his uses."

In the Landsmeet chamber, the assembled nobility standing around them, Alistair shook with rage as he answered, voice quivering with sheer emotion, "How could you? _That_ man," he pointed his sword at Loghain, "Betrayed us all, he _killed_ Duncan! He _murdered_ our king! Does that mean nothing to you?"

The elf's large green eyes flared, seeming to burn with contempt. "You forget what happens to elves in the alienage. To you, Cailan may have been some great hero but to _us_, he was just another shem. I owe him no allegiance." Shocked gasps rippled through the assembled nobles; the _temerity_ of this elf, slandering _their _king. The elven warden spared the assembled lords and ladies a single glare. "To the void with all of you. If the archdemon wasn't a threat to my kind as well, I'd happily stand back and let you all burn."

To a man, those drinking in The Hanged Man turned to stare at the drunk in the corner as he gave voice to an inarticulate cry of rage and threw his empty tankard against the far wall. Corff threw up his hands and pointed to a pair of mostly sober off-duty guardsmen. "You and you, throw him out."

"Bugger off, Corff," one of them muttered, "I'm off shift."

"There's free ale in it for you."

At that, the guards perked right up. "Oh! Well in _that_ case..." Corff looked on as the guards dragged the man across the tavern's filthy floor and shoved him out the door.

"That poor, poor man," Merrill said softly as the door slammed shut.

"Do you think what he said is true?" Varric asked as the tavern returned to its usual pace. "Hell of a tale if it is – heir to the throne of Ferelden reduced to a shell of a man in Kirkwall." He paused for effect, "A tragedy in three acts."

"Varric, you can't use what happened to him as the basis for a story!" Merrill snapped, outrage on behalf of a man she didn't know spilling out. She looked back at the closed door. "That _poor_ man," she repeated quietly.

The dwarf shook his head. "Daisy, not every story has a happy ending."

"Varric, that's _horrible!"_

**Author's Note:** While I realise Alistair _not_ taking the throne was never the popular choice, I wanted to do something different. And recasting the Hero of Ferelden as a cold-hearted manipulative so and so was too much fun _not_ to do.


	5. Chapter 5

The chest of brass-reinforced oak lay beneath some loose floorboards at the rear of the room Hawke and Gamlen shared. Bethany bunked with Mother, in what Hawke half-jokingly referred to as the 'girls' room.'

Gamlen wasn't the ideal room-mate, Hawke reflected. He snored, for a start and sometimes made faintly disturbing moans in his sleep but sometimes his company was preferable to Mother's.  
>Hawke dearly loved his mother but there were times when she cast a sad-eyed look at him and he <em>knew<em> she was thinking _I used to have three children_. Mother never came right out and said it but Hawke knew she held him responsible for Carver's death and why not? As the first born, Hawke's duty was to his younger siblings and he'd failed his brother. He vowed to keep Bethany safe for as long as he was able.

And Gamlen? He _had_ come right out and made his feelings clear. His sister and her family had clearly outstayed their welcome and could they kindly pay room and board? Hawke shook his head at the thought; Gamlen's hovel was only slightly cleaner than the interior of The Hanged Man on any given day. On the up side, there _were_ fewer incidents of drunken violence so one was forced to take the good with the bad. Mother had refused to bend on the rent issue, though.

Kneeling beside Bethany, Hawke twisted his key in the first of the chest's two locks while Bethany did the same with her key. The dual-keyed locking mechanism was a sadly necessary precaution; Gamlen _had_ squandered the family fortune after all and keeping the chest in the house posed enough of a temptation in itself. Each sibling kept their key with them at all times and Hawke knew not even Gamlen would risk attempting to retrieve Bethany's key from around her neck in the dead of night lest she awaken to find his hands perilously close to her bosom and incinerate him. Death by apostate niece; it _would_ make for a memorable exit from this life.

The gold within the chest gleamed dully in the flickering light of the lantern hanging from the wall. "How much do we have?" Bethany quietly asked.

As she waited for him to count up the current balance of what she thought of as The Deep Roads Expedition Fund, Bethany cast a look over her shoulder, making sure they were still alone. Mother had left for the markets while Gamlen had simply informed the rest of the household he was 'going out.' Bethany assumed he meant The Blooming Rose. Ick, just ick. Mother said nothing on the occasions Gamlen returned in the pre-dawn light, smelling of perfume and brandy though her withering expressions spoke volumes.

Most of the ladies at the bordello weren't much older than Bethany herself. The thought of her uncle cavorting with women young enough to be his daughter...the mage shuddered.

Hawke sighed and sat back on his heels. "Twenty-five sovereigns." He paused. "And fifteen silvers. This is going to take us all year."

"Maybe if you'd stop playing those drinking games with Isabela in the tavern, we'd have more money," his sister pointed out as they closed and locked the chest. Bethany waved her hand over the chest and muttered an incantation, casting a protective ward over it. Any half-competent apprentice mage would be able to dispel it but Bethany knew the ward had power enough to give Gamlen quite a shock, were he to tamper with the chest.

Garrett favoured his sister with a wry smile as they set the chest under the floor and replaced the floorboards. "Blame Anders," he answered as he stood. "Every time he starts in about the templars, we down a shot."

Smoothing out her clothes, Bethany replied, "He's...passionate, Garrett. I can't say I agree with everything he says – Father always taught us to maintain a low profile but mages _should_ be able to live outside of Circles without harassment."

Returning to the main room of the house, Garrett said, "Aveline has been at me about the gangs running around Kirkwall at night."

"What about them?"

"Apparently we have _a civic duty to make safe the streets of Kirkwall."_

Bethany laughed softly; Garrett had an uncanny knack for mimicry at times and the guard captain may as well have been speaking through him. "Isn't keeping Kirkwall safe the _guards'_ job?"

"Precisely what _I_ said," the warrior replied. "You can imagine how well _that_ went." He sighed, "She promised us free rein as far as looting bodies is concerned. And we _do_ need the coin."

"So, another night of fun and games in Lowtown?"

"Yes," Hawke said dryly, "And I was _so _looking forward to comparing the relative merits of brunettes and redheads with Gamlen."

Bethany frowned. "Isabela's perverting you, you do realise that?"

Æ

Dark clouds heavy with the promise of rain scudded across the waxing moon, plunging the streets of Lowtown further into darkness. The smokestacks of Kirkwall's foundries belched ever more acrid fumes into the air, adding to gloom. The merchants hawking their wares had long since left for home, leaving the streets the sole domain of the Coterie and Carta. Or so they believed. A pair of dwarves lounging outside a warehouse were caught unaware, a crossbow bolt pinning the first to the wall behind him while an intensely-glowing magical projectile slammed the second backwards.

The second dwarf's innate resistance to magic kept him alive long enough for him to wrap his fist around the bell pull, sounding an alarm within the building even as another spell finished him.

"Damn it!" Bethany hissed, retreating into the shadows alongside Varric. The warehouse door slammed open; at least fifteen rugged-looking Carta thugs emerged and began fanning out, searching for the interlopers.

"That's it," Varric murmured to himself as the dwarves advanced further from the warehouse, "Bianca has a little something for you." The precision-engineered weapon snapped off three shots in rapid succession, felling an equal number of the enemy.

When she judged the dwarves had moved far enough away from the flammable wooden buildings, Bethany inhaled a steadying breath and flung out her right hand. A rush of heat seemed to flow from the very core of her being along the conduit of her arm, manifesting itself as a fireball exploding in the Carta's midst.

Bethany counted four bodies landing in contorted flaming heaps as a fifth ran about screaming, "It burns! It burns!" A familiar buxom form detached itself from the surrounding shadows, appeared behind the dwarf-turned-flaming torch and slid a blade between the ribs. The dwarf stiffened and pitched face-first into the dusty ground. Aware now of yet more attackers among them, the survivors rallied, rounding on the single woman standing before them. "Hello, boys," Isabela grinned as seven bearded, sweaty-looking men converged on her. It reminded her of that last shore leave in Antiva before she left for Ferelden.

"Bela, get out of there!" Bethany called. Isabela briefly turned her face in the direction of the shout and winked. The dying flames of the fireball gleamed momentarily as the sailor's blades flashed out quickly, sliding in and out of their victims' chests. Two more bodies crumpled to the ground, adding to the widening lake of blood. Stunned at the rapid dismantlement of their numbers, the five remaining dwarves watched in disbelief as yet more attackers emerged from the darkness – a tall bearded man hefting a greatsword, a redhead in city guard plate-mail and a second man casually twirling a staff.

"I suppose asking you to surrender is out of the question?" Hawke guessed as the five dwarves formed a skirmish line.

"By the stone!" the thug in the centre of the line shouted, "Kill them!"

Hawke sighed; it had been _that_ kind of night all around.

Æ

Anders whistled as he took in the resultant carnage of their most recent go-around with Kirkwall's criminal element. The apostate mage counted five dwarven corpses charred almost beyond recognition - Bethany's handiwork, four victims of crossbow bolts, including the fellow _still_ nailed to the wall, and the pair Isabela had slain in the moments before Anders and the others showed themselves. Anders, Aveline and Hawke had made short work of the remaining dwarves, the latter cleaving the last dwarf almost in twain. The distinct odour of battle – eau de blood and guts – hung heavy in the air. Kirkwall's undertakers would be _very_ busy in the coming days.

"This reminds me of the time in Amaranthine when the Warden Commander took it upon herself to _clean up the streets."_ Anders shook his head; _this_ mess was only slightly less gory than the one the Warden Commander had left in her wake. Anders suspected Amaranthine's citizenry _still_ spoke of that night in hushed whispers. Anders turned from the worst of the viscera. "The Hero of Ferelden," he mused aloud, "She was really-"

"Great in bed," Isabela broke in, speaking in an almost wistful voice and neatly hijacking the conversation.

Anders made a small choking sound, "You and...the _Warden Commander?"_

Isabela nodded, smiling to herself. "Twice."

Aveline rolled her eyes. "Why am I not surprised? Is there _anybody_ you _haven't _had sex with?"

Isabela said nothing though her smile grew wider.

"So...ah," Hawke began, "How did you come to...know the Hero?"

"Garrett," Bethany said despairingly. She had always looked up to her brother but there were times when she thought he could have benefited from a cuff around the back of his head.

Hawke shrugged. "Don't tell me you're not at least a _little bit _curious."

Bethany found herself nodding. "I'm guessing it's quite a story."

"Oh, a lady doesn't kiss and tell, Kitten," Isabela answered.

"Then what's the problem, Rivaini?" Varric replied, prompting good-natured laughter.

Chuckling, Isabela began, "This was during the Blight. I was docked in Denerim, rather enjoying myself at the Pearl."

"Hmmm," Anders nodded in recognition. In answer to Bethany's questioning glance he added, "It's like The Blooming Rose. But not as classy."

"Oh," Bethany said. Spending time around Isabela was _definitely_ an education, if nothing else.

"Anyway," the former ship captain continued. "I was in the midst of fighting off a number of Denerim's finest who possessed more bravado than skill when the Hero and her party arrived. She saw the way I handled the men and struck up a conversation."

"What was she like?" Bethany asked. After a moment she added, "To talk to, I mean."

Isabela sighed, "She looked like such an innocent, fragile thing but I could tell just from looking into her eyes – that girl had seen a lot and it had left a mark on her. She asked me to teach her to duel like I do..." Isabela's grin returned, "And offered to show me a few things in return."

"Maker," Aveline muttered.

"That's what _I _said, big girl. Several times, in fact."

"Bela..." Bethany shook her head. "You're incorrigible."

Laughing Isabela replied, "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it, Kitten." Isabela returned to her tale. "She and I strolled down the docks to my ship. Just the two of us. Oh, I can still hear the lapping of water against the hull, feel the gentle rocking of the waves. Elves are so...pretty. The women especially. Her eyes were...haunting is the right word, I think."

Hawke watched Isabela's expression change into something close to longing as she related her amorous adventure with the elf who went on to end the fifth Blight and realised he was seeing a side to the pirate queen he suspected few, if any ever had. "Well," said briskly, We should probably begin stripping these bodies for anything of value."

Varric smiled, "Hawke, only _you_ could think of looting bloody corpses after hearing a tale like that. Me? I almost wish I'd been there."

"Oh, Varric," Isabela cooed, "You say the sweetest things."

**Author's Note:** Due to work commitments, updates will probably be less frequent than I'd like. I know, you're crushed.


	6. Chapter 6

The hospice was perilously close to overflowing; walk-in patients stood or sat among those lying atop makeshift stretchers, waiting their turn to see the healers. The dank smells of the undercity – rotten garbage and human waste – permeated the air. "You get used to it," Anders had assured Bethany when she'd first visited the clinic with her brother in search of maps of the deep roads. That all seemed so long ago now, she reflected, walking among the sick and injured, laying a cool hand on a fevered brow or speaking quiet words of encouragement.

Though her father had taught her all he know of healing and the other arcane arts, Bethany often found herself in awe of Anders' prodigious restorative abilities. Under the older mage's touch, broken bones knitted in moments and bleeding wounds closed with no hint of scarring. "How do you _do_ that?" she asked of him during her first week at the clinic. Bethany knew some healing magic but many of the injuries people presented with were beyond her abilities.

The former warden merely shrugged, saying, "It's a gift. I...can show you, if you'd like."

Despite her repeated protestations to Isabela, Bethany felt something between herself and Anders as he demonstrated various ways in which she could better channel the flow of magic from the Fade. After that first week, she spent more of her time working alongside Anders, learning from him. After a month, Anders felt she was ready to heal a more serious injury herself and it wasn't long before the opportunity presented itself in the form of a stabbing victim. The coarse-looking man staggered through the clinic's open doors, right hand pressed into his stomach. As he neared her, Bethany saw the fresh blood spilling through his fingers, spattering to the ground.

As the man stood before her, swaying from side to side, Bethany asked, "What happened?"

Speaking through teeth clenched against the pain, the man grunted, "I was shanked! What's it _look_ like, you silly bitch?"

Bethany sensed Anders looming over her, felt the crackle of power as he fought to contain Justice. "Watch your tongue!" he barked in a lower register than usual.

The man's eyes widened as Bethany tried to calm Anders. "It's all right," she said, unconsciously adopting the same soothing tone her mother had used to calm her as a child. Mastering his emotions, Anders nodded and backed away. Turning back to the man, Bethany carefully approached him and gently removed his hand from the wound. Old dirt and grime seemed to be the only things holding his tattered clothes together; _He's a walking lice infestation_ Bethany marvelled though she noted the wound wasn't as bad as it first looked.

Ignoring the mixed aromas of unwashed male, dirt and fresh blood, Bethany drew in a deep breath and imagined herself as a font of healing energy. Laying gently glowing hands on the man, she poured forth soothing blue-white light into the wound. When she drew her hands away, the wound had all but vanished with only a pink line to indicate it had ever been there at all. The man looked down at himself and, unable to believe what had just transpired, touched his hands to his side, smearing yet more blood on his clothes. _You'll never get that out_ Bethany thought but didn't say, though it was the sort of thing her brother _would _say.

"I...you did it!" The man smiled at her, revealing a few missing teeth. "Please forgive my earlier rudeness, messere. I...was in a lot of pain."

"Perfectly understandable," Bethany replied. In truth, her patient could have called her nug-humping whore and she wouldn't have cared – her elation at having worked 'proper' healing magic was too great.

Æ

With the last of the day's work done, Anders walked Bethany to the doors, trying to put his thoughts into words. There were so many conflicting thoughts and emotions – his growing regard for Bethany balancing the darkness and fury kept barely in check. Anders had all but given up hope of finding 'someone special' after meeting Justice and just being close to Bethany kindled in him something he had not felt in some time – hope.

The flip side of course was the growing likelihood of Anders and every other freedom-seeking mage in Kirkwall ending up either dead or tranquil. Bethany was too special and dear to him for him to risk her life but at the same time, she occupied his thoughts whenever she was not present. Rebel mage pining after a girl. It was almost funny. No doubt Isabela would have field day with it. In the brief span of time it took to walk the woman he already thought of as 'his Bethany' to the door, Anders was unable to come up with any words to properly convey his feelings. In the end, all that came out was, "Well, thank you for your help, Bethany. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Bethany's soft brown eyes met his for a beat longer than polite discourse required and even the small smile on her face seemed to light up her entire being. "I'll be here for as long as you need me, Anders." With that, she was gone, the door closing behind her. Anders smacked his forehead against the wood. "Idiot," he hissed at himself. "I'll see you tomorrow? What _was_ that?" He smacked his forehead against the door a second time. "Ow," he moaned, rubbing the tender spot.

_How hard can it be?_ he berated himself as he returned to his improvised sitting-dining-sleeping area. _Just tell her how you feel!_ "Bethany," he began, praying to the Maker that she wouldn't suddenly return to collect some forgotten something or other. Or to kiss him, maybe. That would be awkward. "I feel..." he trailed off. Gah! He threw his hands up in frustration. _All right then. If you can't say how you feel, write it!_ Yes! Capital idea! A love letter!

With growing excitement, Anders cast about for a crate or empty box, _something_ to pass as a writing table. "Parchment, I need parchment," he muttered, setting down quill and ink well atop a sturdy crate with Gonzo's Fish Market stencilled on the side. The renegade mage settled himself on a second crate, quill in hand.

_Dearest Bethany_ he wrote. After a moment he scratched it out. Too formal. Dipping the quill back into the ink, he tried again. _Dear Beth_. Not formal enough. Again he scribbled it out, quill digging into the parchment. He sat back and sighed. He missed Ser Pounce-A-Lot. For a cat, that little bundle of fur made for a wonderful sounding board, looking up at Anders with those big eyes.

After a moment, inspiration struck and he hurriedly scribbled _Dear Bethie_. No. That was a pet name Hawke sometimes used, stretching back to their childhood in Ferelden and thinking about Bethany's not so very long ago childhood only served to emphasise the age difference between Anders and Bethany. Not good at all.

Æ

Bethany was perhaps ten minutes' walk from the clinic when she realised she'd left a spell tome, _A Treatise on Restorative Magic_ behind. She pulled up short as the thinning crowd ebbed around her, people on their way home. Turning on her heel, Bethany headed back into Darktown; perhaps if she hurried she could return before Anders made ready for sleep. A quiver through her thigh muscles caused her to stumble briefly. All at once, the one thought dominating her mind was Anders. Anders in bed. Anders in bed _naked_. "Maker," she muttered, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat. _Thank Andraste Isabela isn't here to see this!_

The young woman paused outside the clinic's closed doors, hand pressed against her upper chest, willing her heart to slow. When she judged it had slowed sufficiently for her to manage normal speech without her pitch skittering all over the place, she drew in a breath and rapped on the door.

Anders startled as the knock rang out. By now, his ersatz writing desk was covered in sheets of scribbled-upon parchment and his first thought was _If it's templars, the half-assed love notes will really impress them._ Rising to his feet, he snatched up his staff and cast a protective spell upon himself as he marched to the door. "Who's there?" he challenged.

"Bethany," the very object of his recent obsession replied. Anders sagged in relief and opened the door. "Anders?" she asked, concern evident in her voice. "Is something wrong?"

"No! I...ah," he shrugged and stood aside to let her in. "I thought it might be templars, come for the rogue apostate."

Bethany nodded. "I'm sorry if I startled you. I came back for a book..." she trailed off as she walked further into the clinic. Too late, Anders remembered the parchments he'd left scattered around. _Andraste's tits!_ "Anders? What's all this?"

Hurriedly, the older man moved to gather up the papers, hoping against hope that she hadn't yet seen his love-lorn writings. One of the parchments fell from his grasp and fluttered to Bethany's feet, landing on the toe of her boot. With all the grace and agility only a nineteen year old girl could muster, she bent and took the paper in hand. Anders closed his eyes, waiting for the peals of laughter his attempts to woo her through writing were sure to engender. Instead, silence.

"Anders?" she spoke so softly he almost didn't hear. He opened his eyes, laying aside the rest of the papers.

He sighed. "I've wanted to tell you...so many things, Beth. But the words just _wouldn't come out."_ Unable to meet her gaze, he took to studying the floor. The dirt was good, this time of year. Less smelly. "So I tried to write you a letter...you can see I haven't had much luck with that, either."

For once, Bethany's face _didn't_ flush pink with embarrassment, as it so often did in Isabela's company. "Anders," she said. "Please look at me." The other mage turned his face to hers. "Now, close your eyes. When you open them, I want you to speak from _here,"_ Bethany laid a small hand on his chest, over his heart. She gasped slightly as his hand, large and warm closed briefly over it before falling to his side. Anders closed his eyes, opened them, looked into her dark eyes, eyes that didn't judge or damn and said, "Maker you're beautiful."

_Now_ Bethany felt herself blush but she couldn't help but smile. As though only just realising what he'd said, Anders attempted to make light of it. "There! It's out, I said it!"

Suddenly emboldened, Bethany pressed a finger to his lips, shushing him. "From the heart," she whispered.

Anders inhaled through his nose and never had the rank air smelled as sweet as did in that moment. "Bethany, you are the one bright spot of sunshine in the eternal gloom my life has become."

The young woman nodded. "_That's _what you write."

Anders blinked at her. "Why would I write it? I just _said_ it!"

"I want to be able to read it before I go to sleep each night, Anders."

All Anders could do was nod.

**Author's Note:** So it's the weekend. Yay for free time! The idea of Anders bent over an old crate scribbling and then scratching things out appealed to me and usually I avoid romance like the plague. Please let me know what you think.


	7. Chapter 7

_So let it be, and give them time  
><em>_You go your way, and I'll go mine  
><em>_I stand alone, nobody knows  
><em>_The morning son is rose_

Beady Eye, _The Morning Son_

_Diary of a former apostate_

Dear Diary

Maker that sounds ridiculous. I've been in the Gallows a few weeks now and had a wonderful talk with the first enchanter. Just speaking with him made me feel more at ease since we came to Kirkwall. I know it sounds terribly selfish, given all the sacrifices our parents made to keep me safe from the templars, but I'm just glad I don't have to run anymore. No more looking over my shoulder, studying magic in secret. I feel like I have a place here and I've learned so much already.

The first enchanter and other mages have been very welcoming since I arrived and I've found that even some of the templars aren't as bad as I've always thought they were. Of course, the ones who _are_ as bad as I've feared tend to cast them all in a poor light. The one called Ser Alrik...his eyes are so very cold. Knight-Captain Cullen was almost apologetic for his part in bringing me to the Gallows and I can see he truly believes he's carrying out the Maker's work.

Garrett blames himself for my being here – he feels if he'd returned from the expedition sooner, he would have been able to keep the templars from me. Every time he visits, he says how sorry he is. I tell him it's not his fault. Maybe some day he'll begin to believe it.

Æ

"Mother," Bethany argued as Bartrand, Varric and the rest of the expedition hirelings looked on, "I have to do this! Garrett and I have been through too much for me to abandon him now."

Leandra turned to her son, hardening herself against her daughter's appeal. She could not allow this, would not allow it. Had she not lost enough already? Malcolm, then her darling Carver to the Blight and now the rest of her children wanted to brave the deep roads? No. Garrett was mature enough to look after himself she admitted but Bethany? She shook her head. "Garrett, I understand _you_ wanting to go on this expedition but please leave Bethany at home. I couldn't bear it if something happened."

"Mother!" Bethany retorted, almost on the edge of tears. And wouldn't _that_ convince Leandra she was not yet strong enough to go her own way?

Bethany watched as her elder brother's face worked. Mother had gotten to him with guilt. She had a way with it, used it like a hammer to beat opposition into submission. Though she loved her mother, Bethany couldn't stand to look at her in that moment. Garrett drew in a shuddering breath. "Mother's right, Bethany," he replied softly.

"No," his sister replied, voice almost too low to hear.

Garrett stepped close to her and embraced her; at first she resisted but he refused to let her go and she sagged against him, tears wetting his breastplate. "I promise I'll be back as soon as I can," he said and kissed the top of her head. Garrett stepped away, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. He nodded stiffly to Leandra. "Mother."

"Oh, thank the Maker!" Leandra almost wailed, hugging her daughter. With a supreme effort of will, Bethany resisted the urge to strike out at her.

"May I have a moment to farewell the others?" Bethany ground out and before her mother could say yea or nay, broke away from her. The young woman crossed to Anders, feeling herself choke up. "Anders," she said, voice hoarse. She gripped his hands, squeezing hard. "Watch over my brother and bring him back safe. Bring them _all_ back safe!"

"I will, Bethany. I..." Anders trailed off, shaking his head. This wasn't the right time or place to say how he felt. Instead, he kissed her tenderly on the lips.

"It's probably better this way, Sunshine," Varric said when she paused to speak with him. "I hear the deep roads are _terrible_ this time of year."

Bethany found herself laughing. "I'll miss you, Varric. And your stories."

The dwarf looked up at her, "I'll have plenty more when we get back, don't worry about that. And try not to worry about Hawke and Blondie, I'll keep them in line."

"We'll see who keeps who in line, Varric," Anders shot back.

"Well, Kitten," Isabela began. "I suppose this is where we part ways for now. Shh, don't cry." The sailor gently wiped the tears from the younger woman's face.

"Bela," Bethany sniffed, "Promise me something." The former captain nodded. "Don't get killed."

Isabela forced a laugh, "What, and miss the chance to tease you about Anders? Perish the thought!"

With the goodbyes over and done with, Bethany could only watch as her brother, Varric and the others departed. "I'm sorry, dear," Mother murmured. Bethany refused to look at her.

Æ

During the first few days after the expedition departed, Bethany wandered aimlessly around Kirkwall. Everyone she'd grown close to during her time in the city had left for the deep roads and those left behind – Aveline, Fenris and Merrill seemed distant, too consumed with their own lives to spend time with her. She tried running the clinic alone but without Anders to guide her, soon found herself swamped with requests for aid and was forced to turn people away. Eventually her lonely wanderings ended at Merrill's door; though Bethany wasn't as close to the dalish elf as she was to Isabela or Varric, she found Merrill pleasant enough.

The door to Merrill's alienage home opened to her knock. "Oh, Bethany! I didn't expect you to visit," Merrill said. "I didn't mean to sound like I _don't _want you to visit! It's a surprise, that's all."

Despite her mood, Bethany laughed. "Merrill, it's so good to see you."

The elf stepped aside, allowing Bethany to enter. "Can I get you something to eat or drink?" Merrill enquired – she had gotten much better at receiving visitors since first arriving in Kirkwall though few of the elves in the alienage were inclined to speak with her. She couldn't understand why – wouldn't those of her people be better off if they formed strong bonds? Likely she'd said or done something to offend them without even realising it.

Bethany shook her head, declining Merrill's offer. She sat at the table in the main room and Merrill sat opposite. "How are you, Merrill?" Bethany asked.

"Oh, I'm fine. Things have been less exciting since Isabela and the others left for the deep roads but...oh. You're crying," Merrill pointed out, feeling flustered. How did one comfort a crying human woman? Awkwardly, Merrill knelt by Bethany's side and embraced her, feeling the young woman's sobs as they shook her. After a few moments, Bethany regained control of herself. "Thank you," she whispered, voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to cry all over you."

"It's no problem, really. My clothes are only slightly damp."

Bethany wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry. I miss them all so much."

Merrill nodded understandingly as she resumed her seat. "Isabela and Varric have been wonderful friends to me. And your brother is...well he's Hawke." Merrill paused a moment. "Do you think he and Isabela are sleeping together?" she suddenly blurted out.

"What?" Bethany exclaimed, suddenly forgetting her loneliness.

The elf blinked, "Was I not supposed to ask that? I always have trouble remembering what's appropriate to talk to people about."

"What makes you think Isabela and Garrett are...doing that?"

Merrill shrugged. "Well, Isabela and Hawke always get on so well together."

With a small smile, Bethany replied, "Isabela gets on well with lots of people. But as far as I know, it's all just _harmless flirting _between her and my brother."

"They'd make a lovely couple, don't you think?" Merrill nodded at Bethany, "Like you and Anders."

Bethany nodded, "He's a good man. I..." she sighed. "I love him."

"I wonder if Justice will stop being so _cross_ all the time, now?" Merrill thought aloud.

"Merrill," Bethany shook her head though she was unable to stop smiling.

Æ

"A visitor is waiting for you in the courtyard," a middle-aged tranquil informed Bethany. The Circle mage closed her journal and looked up. Aside from herself and the tranquil messenger, there were only a few other mages in the library and two templars posted by the door. _Just in case somebody reads a book on forbidden magic and decides to slaughter us all_ Bethany thought darkly. She didn't know either of the templars and neither had deigned to respond to her greeting as she entered the room. Anders had been right, she reflected, some of the templars _were_ prigs.

With a full head of dark hair silvering at the temples and his formal carriage, the tranquil could have been described as regal-looking were it not for the lifelessness of his eyes and flat manner of speaking. The brand in his forehead seemed to stare out at Bethany like a third eye and she suppressed a shudder. She rose from her seat, journal in hand. "Thank you," she answered. "Who is it?"

Bethany found herself unable to meet the tranquil's flat stare as he answered, "I am to tell you it is a surprise." With that, the tranquil led the way from the room; Bethany smiled as she followed him. _Isabela!_

The Gallows courtyard was a welcome respite from the relative gloom and slight chill of the interior and Bethany was glad to be outside. "Remember," the tranquil informed her before he left, "Visits are limited to one hour. Please do not be late in returning."

Isabela smiled broadly as her friend arrived. "One hour? Oh, there are _so_ many things we could do!"

Bethany laughed as they embraced one another. Isabela stepped back, looking her friend up and down. She shook her head. "Those robes are terrible, Beth. They leave _everything_ to the imagination! I have a great imagination but even _I_ need something to work with!" She sighed. "Seriously though, how have you been? The Hanged Man isn't the same without you."

"Things aren't as horrible here as I thought they would be. And it's a relief not to have to worry about the templars catching me. They can only catch me once, right?"

"Only if you _don't_ try to escape," Isabela pointed out. Bethany frowned and shook her head. "You're right, sweet thing," Isabela conceded. "Lull them into a false sense of security, _then_ escape!"

Bethany rolled her eyes. "Bela...How are _you?"_

Isabela waved away her concern, "Me? You know how it goes, you drink too much and most days end with either a duel or..." she smirked, "A _duel."_ Before the mage could answer, Isabela said, "I have something for you."

Bethany folded her arms over her chest. She knew the ship captain too well not to wonder what the something in question might be. "Bela..." she said warningly.

"You wound me!" Isabela protested, pressing a hand into her chest. "I bought a pair of boots for you. Nice ones, made from Antivan leather. See?" The sailor knelt beside a large sack by her side and removed a pair of knee-high boots, crafted from supple yet sturdy leather with a multitude of ties and buckles.

"Oh, you shouldn't have!" Bethany gasped as she accepted the gift. She held the boots at arms' length, taking them in. "They seem a bit...racy though."

"You should have seen the _first_ pair I picked out. Besides, under those robes, nobody else will know." She winked, "It'll be our little secret."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"It's nothing, Kitten. What's coin for if not for spending?" Isabela paused a moment before changing tack, "Has Anders come to visit?"

"A..couple of times, yes. With all the templars around he's worried about Justice...getting out."

"Pfft," Isabela said derisively. "If he cared for you even half as much as he claims, he wouldn't let anything stand between you."

"He _does_ care. He just...It's difficult for him to be here. I understand."

Isabela shook her head. "You're a better person than I am, dear."

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Bela."

The pirate shrugged, uncomfortable with the sudden praise. "How's Garrett?" Bethany asked. "How is he really? I know he blames himself for this," she swept an arm to encompass the courtyard.

Isabela sighed. "If I had crewmen half as loyal to me as your brother is to you, I'd never need to watch my own back again. No matter how many times I try to tell him otherwise, he won't let go of the idea that he let you down."

"But he didn't!" Bethany hissed. "You tell him that! I don't care if you have to beat it into his head."

"Your mother's the problem." Isabela held a hand palm outward to forestall any protest. "I know she loves you both dearly but she guilted Hawke into leaving you behind that day. She knows it but doesn't care. I can almost admire that."

Bethany nodded her acceptance of this. "She did it out of love," she said quietly.

"I've lost track of all the terrible things people have done out of love." Isabela shook herself, "Enough! I came here to cheer you up, not make you feel worse." Forcing a smile, she asked, "What do those templars look like under that armour?"

Bethany chuckled, "Like men, I imagine."

Clicking her tongue, Isabela replied, "You _imagine?_ I swear, one of these days, I'll drag you to the Blooming Rose."

"I have Anders," the mage quietly pointed out.

"He can come too!"

Æ

Bethany looked up at the chandelier, Garrett beside her. Using their share of the coin from the ill-fated expedition, Hawke had bought the Amell estate and immediately petitioned Meredith and Orsino, seeking permission for Bethany to visit. After many weeks of often-frustrating negotiations, the Knight-Commander had acquiesced to his requests on the proviso that a templar accompany 'the mage' at all times. The Chantry warrior, a giant of a man clad in full plate, stood to one side. Hawke and Bethany cheerfully ignored him.

Turning in a full circle, Bethany breathed, "It's wonderful."

Hawke shrugged, feeling awkward in his finery. "It was the least I could do, after what happened."

Bethany rounded on him. "This again, Garrett? It wasn't your fault."

"I failed you," he stated.

"Garrett," Bethany hissed, "If you say that again, I _will_ hurt you."

Hawke chuckled at her sudden fierceness; she seemed to have matured somewhat during her time in the Gallows but she would always be his little sister. "Come, I'll show you the rest of the place."

**Author's Note:** I've noticed several stories with Bethany or Carver in the Wardens after the deep roads and decided to take another route. Am I the only one bothered by the fact that after all they go through to raise the money, Hawke's sibling never gets to see the estate once it's bought?


	8. Chapter 8

The messenger, a youngster of no more than twelve ran with an easy gait through the undercity towards the clinic, easily dodging the beggars and those with something to sell – either goods of questionable value or themselves. The man who'd approached and given him the job had offered the princely sum of one hundred silvers – half in advance and half on completion of the task, ensuring he'd actually _do _the job. Clearly the young lad's employer wasn't an imbecile though he sure did look funny in those velvety red robes or whatever it was rich people wore.

Nearing the glowing red lanterns hanging above the clinic doors, the lad once more closed a hand around the jingling purse tied to his belt. He had to pass on the message, collect the rest of his pay and be off the streets right sharpish before the jingling attracted the wrong sort of attention.

The messenger slowed only enough to straight-arm the door open, ignoring the loud thud it made as it hit the earthen wall and rebounded, dust sifting to the floor. The hospice was sparsely populated – aside from the man he was to find, there were only two others in attendance. The first was an embarrassed-looking fellow wearing fancy clothes, about twenty-five – that was practically _ancient!_ The second was a woman, a blue headscarf wrapped around shoulder-length dark hair. The boy pulled up short at the sight of her – he couldn't recall seeing such large bosoms before and tried not to stare. Much.

The healer – supposedly a grey warden, passed the other man a small earthenware jar. "Just reapply that if the rash comes back. And I'd be more careful in the future. Sometimes sailors...dock in unsavoury waters."

"I heard that," the woman said as the man hurriedly left the clinic, looking neither left nor right, jar clutched in his hand as though it contained the ashes of Andraste herself. As the young boy approached, the woman nodded towards him. "Looks like you have another patient, Anders." With a seemingly exaggerated motion of her hips, the woman sauntered from the clinic. The lad turned to watch as she left, her hips rolling almost hypnotically.

"She has that effect on most people," the man called Anders observed. He looked the boy up and down; aside from appearing slightly gaunt, he seemed healthy enough. "What brings you here?"

The boy looked up at the healer, remembering he had a job to do. "I bring you message, messere. From Serrah Hawke."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

The lad's face crinkled as he recited the message from memory. "You are to _visit him at the estate in Hightown at your earliest convenience."_

Anders experienced a moment of panic. "Did he say anything else? Is something wrong?" His hands clenched at his sides. "Is it Bethany?"

The messenger blinked in surprise. All he'd been told was deliver a message – nobody had told him _anything_ about this supposed warden being so uptight. He held his grimy hands palm outward. "Honest, messere, I don't know nothing 'bout anything else."

The healer nodded, reining himself in. Surely if an event of earth-shattering, cataclysmic proportions _had_ transpired, Hawke would have come himself. "Very well. I shall leave immediately."

The boy nodded and left, jingling as he went.

Æ

Anders paused outside the closed door of the Amell estate to catch his breath. Though he hadn't travelled from Darktown at a run, he hadn't dawdled either. The mage swallowed a mouthful of water from the flask at his hip then poured some more water into his hands, that he might rinse the perspiration from his face. Maker, Kirkwall was _hot_ this time of year and the layers of clothing he habitually wore weren't conducive to keeping one's cool, metaphorically or otherwise. Straightening his back, Anders pounded his fist on the door and took a step back in surprise as the door swung inwards an instant later.

"Greetings, messere!" Hawke's dwarven valet addressed him. "Please step inside. Serrah Hawke is expecting you."

"So I understand," Anders answered, stepping foot inside the estate. "This place is quite...grand," he observed, following Bodahn into the front room of the building. Bethany had described the rooms to him when he'd last visited her in the Gallows but his love apparently possessed a gift for understatement – the estate was clearly expensively appointed but without seeming gaudy about it. The chandelier for instance could easily have dominated the room with masses of crystals yet the furnishings all seemed tastefully restrained, at least in the warden's opinion.

"Oh yes, messere! Very grand, indeed! Mistress Hawke approved all the furnishings personally, you see. My boy so does love to swing from the chandelier. Ah," Bodahn paused. "Please don't mention that to Master Hawke."

"Ah...no, course not," Anders replied, looking up at the second floor. There was no sign of Hawke.

Before the former grey warden could enquire as to Hawke's whereabouts, Bodahn ushered a slightly vacant-looking dwarf towards him. Anders recognised him from the expedition. "Sandal, isn't it?"

"Say hello to the nice man, Sandal," Bodahn said gently.

After a moment, Sandal answered, "Hello." Anders suppressed a shiver. The boy seemed nice enough but there was something obviously not-right about him. Sandal smiled up at him. "Enchantment?" he asked.

"Um. Perhaps later?" Anders replied, feeling ever more discomfited. Where _was_ Hawke? Anders had a manifesto to write, he didn't have time to stand around.

"Enchantment!" Sandal exclaimed and wandered away.

Bodahn nodded. "Just so. Please wait here, messere while I fetch Master Hawke." Before Anders could reply, Bodahn slid through a nearby doorway.

As he waited for Hawke, Anders felt ever more on edge. Nothing about this felt right – the messenger, the summons; he felt his ever-present paranoia ratchet up a notch. What if this was all a ruse? What if Hawke had decided Anders and Justice posed too great a threat to Bethany and sold him out to the Knight-Commander? The apostate was on the verge of fleeing – left the cauldron bubbling over the fire, must dash! - when Bodahn finally reappeared through the same door. He inclined his head towards Anders. "Master Hawke waits for you in the library, messere."

Nodding his thanks, Anders stepped past the dwarf into the room beyond; Bodahn shut the door behind him. Hawke stood by a wall of floor to ceiling bookshelves, back turned to his guest. Instead of his amour, Hawke wore faintly ridiculous-looking finery with the Amell family crest embroidered on the back in gold thread. If he was aware of Anders' presence, Hawke gave no sign. A trickle of sweat ran along Anders' jaw. Without turning around, Hawke closed the book he'd been reading and slid it back into the shelf before him. Hands clasped behind him, Hawke finally spoke though Anders had trouble deciding whether Hawke was addressing _him_ or the wall.

"What are your intentions towards my sister?" Hawke asked in low, even tones.

The seemingly bizarre nature of the inquiry flummoxed Anders. The apostate had convinced himself an entire legion of templars lay in wait to drag him to the Gallows, kicking and screaming. "What? I don't _have_ any intentions!" he replied, very unsure of himself.

Finally, Hawke turned to face his guest, a strangely intent expression on his bearded face. "Oh, I see how it is," he began. "Bethany is just some bit of _fun_ to you, then? A toy to play with and then toss aside when you become bored? Is that it?"

For a brief period that felt like decades, Anders couldn't get any words out. Obviously, Hawke had gone mad if he truly believed such a thing of him. "Wait! No, it isn't like that at all! I love Bethany!" Anders slapped a hand over his mouth much as a child would, having realised he'd said something incriminating. He hadn't meant to just blurt out the L word. Not like _this_ at least.

Hawke nodded agreeably. "We'll have to begin the arrangements immediately, in that case."

Anders fell back a step, simply unable to comprehend whatever madness Hawke was babbling. "What arrangements? What are you _talking about?"_

The other man made a grand gesture with both arms. "For the wedding, of course! You would not believe how long Mother has waited to see one of her children married."

Anders' jaw dropped and he was dimly aware of saliva pooling on his tongue, threatening to spill down his chin. With an effort, he clicked his mouth shut and swallowed. "Marriage?" he whispered.

Suddenly Hawke tossed his head back and laughed, holding himself upright against the wall. After a moment he managed some semblance of normal speech. "The look on your face is priceless, Anders!"

Realisation dawned on Anders; this whole thing was a _set-up?_ The messenger? The faster than was dignified trip from Darktown? The talk of marriage? "You utter bastard!" Anders growled, clenching his fists. "You called me all the way here to _screw_ with me?"

Grinning, Hawke nodded. "Had you going there for a minute, didn't I?" He motioned towards an end table tucked into one corner of the room atop which sat a wine bottle and goblets. "Drink?"

With quick, jerky motions, Anders stepped to the table and grabbed the bottle. The glass creaked slightly, such was the force of his grip. He poured a generous measure for himself, knocked it back and poured a second. "This little charade was Isabela's idea, I suppose?" he guessed, slowly sipping the wine now.

Hawke nodded, still smiling. "Varric as well. Also, I wanted to know what it felt like, having the coin to hire a messenger and have you run over here." Hawke cleared his throat and tugged at the sleeves of his finery. In truth he felt more at ease in full armour but apparently properly civilised folk didn't clump around indoors wearing plate-mail, at least according to Mother. "In all seriousness, Anders, you know I have Bethany's best interests at heart?"

"Of course I do. Listen, Hawke," Anders replied, setting down the goblet. "Whatever happens between us, I swear on my own life, I'd never do anything to intentionally hurt her."

Hawke folded his arms. "It's the _intentionally_ part I worry about." He held up a hand, forestalling any protest. "She's already under enough scrutiny in the Gallows but she's smart enough to keep her head down and not attract any undue attention. _You_ on the other hand seem intent on pressing the templars."

"My _intent_ is to ensure no more mages are made tranquil and can live their lives free from persecution!" Anders replied heatedly. He stabbed a finger at Hawke, "You, of all people should know how precious that freedom is."

Hawke bit back a retort. What had started as a practical joke on his part was fast turning far too serious for his liking and once Anders started in on the 'persecution of mages,' it was hard to shut him up. Hoping to avoid an argument – especially as he agreed with Anders in principle – Hawke made an effort to calm the situation. "My family worked for almost twenty years to keep Bethany safe and even longer to keep my father safe from the templars. I understand your point of view, Anders but I'm asking you, as a friend and more importantly, as Bethany's brother, _be careful._"

Anders inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils, held it and exhaled a few moments later, calming himself in the process. He nodded. "This was overdue, Hawke."

Hawke raised his eyebrows. "What was overdue?"

"The 'over-protective elder brother speech.' Were I you, I'd have done it months ago."

Smiling, Hawke answered, "I didn't have the estate months ago and paying a messenger to summon you to Gamlen's hovel would not have had the same effect."

Anders chuckled. After a moment he pointed out, "You look ridiculous in that outfit."

Hawke nodded. "I know."

**Author's Note:** So I found myself in the mood to mess with Anders' mind. Thanks also for the reviews.


	9. Chapter 9

Aveline looked up from the seemingly unending piles of parchment on her desk as a knock rang off the office door. The paperwork was the least enjoyable aspect of her recent promotion. As though being corrupt wasn't bad enough, in recent times Jeven had falsified a number of documents and Aveline was only now getting things sorted out.

Grateful for the distraction, Aveline called for her visitor to enter. The door swung open, revealing a slightly flushed guardsman Donnic. "Guard Captain," he greeted her with a polite nod.

Inclining her head towards him in turn, Aveline replied, "Guardsman. Is there a problem?"

Donnic glanced over his shoulder and closed the door behind him. He cleared his throat, unsure of the best way to approach the matter. "I was on patrol in Lowtown this evening and came upon two of your ah...acquaintances-"

Aveline cut him off with a raised hand, face hardening. Already she knew the name of at least one of the troublemakers. "Donnic. Out with it."

"I encountered Serrah Hawke and the Rivaini ship captain," again Donnic cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. With a sigh he continued. "They were ah, _enjoying one another's company_, Captain."

Aveline's green eyes narrowed. That the guard had discovered a wanton hussy like Isabela rutting like an animal in the street was no great surprise. But Hawke? Aveline honestly believed he was better than that. "So I'm clear on this, guardsman, Hawke and Isabela were engaged in sexual intercourse?"

Donnic's face flushed a dull red as he nodded. "Yes, Captain. In the middle of the street in the foundry district."

"That whore," she muttered under her breath. Of her guardsman she demanded, "Where are they now?"

"I placed them under arrest and have detained them in the cells here in the keep, Captain. I thought you would want to deal with this personally, rather than bringing it to the attention of a magistrate."

Aveline sighed and rose from behind her desk. Suddenly, the paperwork didn't seem so troublesome, after all. "Very good, guardsman. You may return to your duties."

Donnic saluted and left, the sights and sounds of what he'd encountered all-too fresh in his mind.

Face set in a grim mask of barely contained anger, Aveline stormed from her office, down several flights of stone stairs and into the slightly damp atmosphere of the cells. Here, the stone walls were slick with moisture and a variety of mosses grew betwixt the flagstones underfoot, making the going somewhat treacherous. The captain's right foot skidded momentarily on a patch of moss and she thrust out an arm, steadying herself on the wall. The near-miss did nothing to improve her disposition. "Where are they?" she demanded of the guards on duty at the gate leading to the dungeons proper.

Guardsman Pavel knew better than to ask of whom the captain was referring. "The fourth and fifth cells on the left, Captain. We thought it best to detain them separately."

Aveline nodded, approving of this decision though Maker knew Isabela was likely perverse enough to attempt some manner of contortion allowing her to..._Whore_ she muttered under her breath as Pavel and Jansen cranked open the gate for her. Hunching over slightly, Aveline passed beneath before it was fully open.

In the fourth cell on the left, Isabela rose from the hard bunk chained to the cold stone wall as booted footfalls echoed through the cells towards her. "Looks like we have company, Hawke!" the pirate announced. Standing with his back to her in the fifth cell on the left, Hawke made no reply; once Mother learned of this, he'd never hear the end of it. "Oh, don't be like that, Hawke!" Isabela went on when he refused to answer. "We had fun, didn't we?"

"We were_ arrested_, Isabela!" Hawke snapped, still looking away from her.

Rolling her eyes, Isabela replied. "I've been arrested dozens times-"

"That surprises me not at all," Aveline interjected as she arrived, stopping between the two cells. It was fortunate, in a way – the night was yet young and the rest of the cells were as yet empty. "Hawke," Aveline began, choosing to ignore the sailor for the moment, "What in blazes were you _thinking?"_

Despite the situation, Isabela couldn't help but grin. "Likely he was thinking _that's a nice pair!"_

Aveline rounded on her, "Shut up, whore!"

In his cell, Hawke sighed and turned towards the captain. He winced at the fury and, yes, there it was, contempt in her eyes. "Aveline, do what you will with me but Mother mustn't hear of this."

"Oh, so _now_ you worry about your reputation?" Isabela demanded. "You didn't seem too concerned earlier tonight."

"You ambushed me!" Hawke protested. "I had no time to think!"

"_Both of you, shut up!"_ Aveline shouted.

At the gate, Pavel grinned at Jansen. "Capn's _really_ giving it to them."

With an effort, Aveline attained some semblance of calm. After she cleaned up _this_ mess, she'd head into Lowtown on patrol and Maker help anybody foolish enough to cross her; she had Isabela-induced frustrations to vent. "Hawke," the captain began. "Perhaps you'd like to explain what happened?"

Æ

Cheap ale, a few hands of wicked grace with friends – despite the new-found riches from the expedition, Hawke still whiled away much of his spare time in Lowtown's Hanged Man tavern, much to Mother's dismay. "Now that we have our estate once more, perhaps it's time to find you an appropriate match, dear?"

Hawke winced; Mother was sliding back into noble life far too easily for his liking. He wanted her to be happy, of course but had she not _seen_ the way some of these high-born young ladies behaved towards people they thought were beneath them?

Hawke and his siblings may well have been of noble blood but theirs had not been the lives of nobles. They had not spent their youth attending grand balls or dances nor had they received instruction in correct and proper etiquette. No, in all likelihood, Kirkwall's young noble ladies thought the residents of the Amell estate were only a rung or two above peasants. Not wanting to provoke an argument, Hawke promised to think about it, said thinking typically occurring in The Hanged Man, over a few rounds of cards.

"So, Hawke," Varric began, looking up from his cards. "Has your mother made any progress in finding you a suitable wife?"

"Varric," Hawke answered, "I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than associate with any of those nobles."

"Ohh," Merrill winced. "Pins? That does sound terribly painful, Hawke. Surely those young women can't be _that _bad?"

Varric smiled at the elf over his cards. "C'mon Daisy. Just last week you were telling me how a woman screamed for her guards when she caught you in her flower garden."

"Oh, I'm sure that was all some silly misunderstanding, Varric." Merrill frowned at her cards. "Uh. Raise?" she said, tentatively laying a few silvers atop the small pile of coins on the table.

"A misunderstanding?" Varric echoed. "What was it she called you? A _feral elf?"_

Hawke chuckled at the thought of a high-strung woman setting her guards on Merrill. "Feral elf, Merrill? Really?" Hawke's gaze flicked to his hand. He sighed. "I fold."

Varric grinned at Merrill. Much as he liked her, he had no intention of going easy on her at cards. Varric laid his cards on the table, face up, smiling even wider. "Read 'em and weep, Daisy."

For several moments, Merrill stared quizzically down at her cards, brow furrowed. She looked tentatively at Hawke; he shrugged so she showed her hand. Craning his neck, Hawke checked both hers and Varric's hands. "Huh," he muttered in surprise. "You've won, Merrill."

"What?" Varric replied, stunned. He picked up his cards, threw them down and looked at Merrill's.

The dalish looked back at him, large green eyes blinking. "Varric, what's wrong?"

"You won, Daisy. Here," the dwarf pushed the pile of silvers across the table towards her.

"Oh!" Merrill exclaimed. "Oh my! I've never won at cards before! What should I do with all this coin, Varric?"

The dwarf smiled at Merrill's happiness; never had losing at cards felt good. "Well, Daisy, traditionally, the winner buys the next round."

Æ

Hawke stumbled from the tavern suffering the effects of slightly too much ale and began walking at a brisk pace, hoping the cool night air would sober him sufficiently. As he ambled in the direction of the foundry district, Hawke became aware of footsteps, light and quick, approaching from behind. The pace of the footsteps increased as his unseen pursuer ran at him and Hawke spun to face his would-be assailant. The dark clouds overhead rendered the streetscape even darker than usual and it wasn't until his attacker flew at him that Hawke saw it was a woman.

Operating purely on instinct, Hawke knocked her to the ground and stood over her, sword poised over her chest. He blinked in surprise as his ale-muddled mind processed what he was seeing. "Isabela?"

The ship-less captain lay on her back, breathing rapidly. She smiled up at him. "Hello, sweet thing." Hawke frowned down at her, blade still raised overhead. Isabela winked at him; even given her current position, she knew she'd have no trouble getting Hawke right where she wanted him. "Out for a nice stroll?" she observed.

Before he could answer, Isabela scissored her legs, ankles catching Hawke's, dumping him hard to the ground. Even as the back of his head rapped the street, Isabela climbed atop him and straddled his chest. The sword clattered to the street, unnoticed by either. Hawke made as though to throw her off but she grabbed his right hand in both of hers, guiding it to her chest. "What the hell is this?" Hawke rasped. How much had he drunk? One moment he had been enjoying the night air and the next he was on his back, with a sore head and a hand on Isabela's right breast.

Leaning over him, Isabela ran her tongue over his mouth. "Where I come from," she whispered, "We call it sex."

"Now?" Hawke answered, breath quickening.

Isabela tore open Hawke's shirt, thankful he had chosen this night to forgo his usual armour. All those buckles and straps were _such_ a bother to deal with! "Ooh, chest hair!" she exclaimed. "As to the question of why now, sweet thing, we've danced around each other for far too long."

"Here?" Hawke moaned. "In the _street?"_

Isabela kissed him again, relishing the taste of him. "Exciting isn't it?"

Consumed as they were in the taste and feel of each other, neither Hawke nor Isabela heard the booted footfalls. Or the embarrassed-sounding _ahem._ Hawke felt as though he was about to touch the face of the Maker when a male voice broke in on his imminent ecstasy. "Serrah Hawke!"

Breathing heavily, Isabela twisted around, sweat-dampened hair clinging to her face. She felt Hawke wilt beneath her. _Damn! And I was so close!_ "Good evening, guardsman!" she said as though nothing untoward were occurring at all. Why, I have wild sex in the streets _all the time!_ "Donnic, isn't it?" Beneath her, Hawke groaned.

"Ah...I'm afraid I'll have to place you both under arrest, messeres," an extremely discomfited Donnic announced. He didn't quite know _where_ to look and Serrah Hawke's...companion for the evening wasn't making his life any easier, looking the way she did. "Perhaps you should put your clothes back on?" he suggested, looking at his boots. The toe of the left needed shining, he noted. He'd attend to that matter, just as soon as he got these two sorted out.

"Under arrest?" Isabela echoed. She looked down at Hawke and smirked. "Whatever for?"

"Public indecency, messere," Donnic answered, face hot.

Hawke closed his eyes. "_Isabela_," he moaned.

Æ

Inside the keep's dungeon, Aveline shook her head. "Hawke, you realise I can't be seen to go easy on you?"

Gripping the bars of his cell, Hawke forced himself to meet the captain's stern green gaze. "Mother _can't know _of this! I'm not asking you to abuse your position and release me without punishment-"

"Why not?" Isabela demanded. "What good is having the captain of the guard onside if you _don't_ ask for favours?"

Hawke glared at the other woman. "We're already in _enough_ trouble! In the _street,_ Isabela! You couldn't have jumped me in the tavern?"

"It was an impulse!" Isabela shot back. "I didn't _plan_ to ravish you in the street, you know. And besides, you were more than willing to _rise to the occasion!"_

"Enough!" Aveline barked. She drew in a breath through her nose. "You two are pathetic," she muttered.

"_Excuse me?"_ Hawke retorted even as Isabela exclaimed, "Get off your high horse!"

Ignoring her, Aveline went on. "Out of respect for your mother, knowing what she's gone through since leaving Ferelden, I'll make you a deal: You pay a fine, same as anybody else but I'll leave it to you to explain to Leandra how you came to end up in jail." Aveline frowned at Hawke through the bars of the cell, lines deepening at the corners of her eyes. "But don't you dare put me in this position again." She shot a fierce glare at Isabela. "Either of you."

Hawke nodded. "Thank you, Aveline."

The guard-captain made no reply; she merely turned on her heel and marched out of sight. Hawke turned to Isabela. "Well," he began. "We should get our stories straight."

"Wait," Isabela held up a hand. "Before we get to that, I want to," she sighed. "Apologise. You were right. I _should_ have jumped you in the tavern." She stepped closer to the bars separating her cell from his and extended her right hand through the gaps. "Truce?"

Hawke took the offered hand. "Truce." After a moment, he added, "You know, everything up until Donnic was...well. Let's just say I don't hold it against you."

Isabela smirked. "Maybe I _want_ you to...hold it against me."

Hawke sighed, though a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Right, here's how things went..."

Æ

"Arrested?" Leandra repeated. The horror! How was she ever meant to find a suitable wife for Garrett if he persisted in frequenting that tavern?

Hawke nodded. "Yes, Mother. I'm so sorry but I couldn't stand by while those men insulted my friend's honour." Hawke knew nobody else would ever, in a million years, believe Isabela _had_ any honour to defend but thankfully, Mother didn't know Isabela very well.

"So you were arrested as a consequence of defending a lady's honour?" When Hawke nodded, Leandra smiled. "Oh, I am so very proud of you for standing up for your friends like that!"

Hawke could only stand immobile, uncomfortable beneath the undeserving praise. He'd lied to his mother. To protect her, yes but the members of his family had ever been open and honest with each other; it was part of the reason they'd survived for so long. "Why don't you tell me about some of these young noblewomen?" he invited.

The excited look on his mother's face was worth it.

**Author's Note:** So, spectre4hire wanted to know when we'd see Hawke and Isabela interact. :) In truth, this image of Isabela jumping Hawke in the street has been in my mind for a while and I would have written it eventually but I got caught up with the Bethany/Anders thing. Also, regarding wicked grace, in my mind, it's a bit like poker but I have no idea how that game is played.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Condensed History of Kirkwall as it pertains to the Champion and his Companions  
><strong>**Circa 9:32 to 9:35 Dragon**

_Compiled by Brother Genitivi, Chantry Scholar of Denerim_

It should be noted that, while all care was taken in the compilation of this history, much of what is known of the Champion prior to the bestowing of that title is open to conjecture and wild speculation. That said, to the best of my knowledge, this is an accurate and correct account of the lives of the Champion and his companions in the years prior to what became known as 'the Qunari incident.'

Æ

Having fully embraced the lifestyle of a high-born noblewoman, Leandra Hawke arranged numerous introductions between her son and the eligible young ladies of Kirkwall, leading to much dismay on his part and much amusement on the part of Varric and Isabela. Upon observing the awkwardness of the proceedings, Merrill was heard to say, "I think it's awfully sweet of Hawke's mother to become involved in his love life like that."

Despite his mother's best efforts, Hawke stubbornly remained a bachelor though he was often observed in the company of Isabela, sometimes less than fully clothed. For her part, Isabela fell into a habit of jumping Hawke in The Hanged Man at least once a week, ravishing him all night before unceremoniously ejecting him from her room at dawn. After one particularly vocal session, Hawke was heard to enquire of her, "Why must you always kick me out of your bed like that? Is it so much to ask to just snuggle for a bit?"

"I don't 'snuggle', sweet thing," was the sailor's alleged response.

Æ

In an effort to mark the occasion of Bethany's twenty-first birthday, Isabela attempted to sneak a number of whores from the Blooming Rose into the Gallows, including though not limited to Jethan and Idunna The Exotic Wonder of The East. Isabela and the assembled ladies and gentleman of the night were apprehended by Knight-Captain Cullen and turned over to Guard-Captain Aveline. It is said that Jethan, in an effort to escape arrest, offered the Knight-Captain the 'Antivan lunch special.' The Knight-Captain flatly refused this offer, much to Jethan's disappointment.

Guard-Captain Aveline's response to Isabela's latest outrage cannot be repeated in polite company though it _can_ be revealed that the Guard-Captain was heard to say the words 'shut up' and 'whore' no fewer than twenty-three times in the space of a half-hour. Taking advantage of the confusion at the Gallows following the arrest, Anders managed to sneak himself into Bethany's cell. A fine time was enjoyed by all.

Bethany Hawke's time in the Gallows was productive – following her Harrowing, she assisted several senior enchanters with various research endeavours, often providing unique viewpoints thanks to her upbringing outside the Circle. One particular senior enchanter, Tobias, enlisted the young woman's aid in the hopes of perfecting a formula to which he had dedicated fifteen years of his life. When asked of the specifics of this formula, Tobias is reported to have said, "I'm attempting to distil a substance that should, Maker willing, fully and completely eliminate the odour of chamber pots."

After examining the copious reams of parchment Tobias had amassed over the years, Bethany suggested a simple alteration to the formula. "Add rosewater."

This distillation, _Tobias' Chamber pot Freshening Formula_ proved exceedingly popular throughout Kirkwall and to this day, no home is without at least one vial. Unfortunately, Tobias was not a wise investor and promptly lost most of his profits buying into Gamlen Amell's latest qunari cheese business. Some say Bethany is _still_ awaiting her share of the profits.

Taking note of Bethany's progress in the Circle, First Enchanter Orsino promoted her to Senior Enchanter, placing her in charge of mentoring the Circle's younger apprentices. When asked how best to deal with templars, her response was always the same, "Just smile and nod. Smile and nod."

Æ

Anders continued operating the hospice in Darktown though he often found time to write love letters to Bethany. In the space of a single year, Anders delivered thirteen children, treated dozens of cases of 'a rash down there,' set numerous broken bones, treated several cases of 'random shanking,' all whilst working on his manifesto. In the summer of 9:32 Dragon, Anders and the escaped elven slave Fenris became involved in a heated argument over the use of magic. Bereft of Bethany's stabilising influence, the argument soon escalated into a brawl, resulting in extensive property damage to The Hanged Man.

The cost of replacing the damaged and destroyed furnishings amounted to the sum of three sovereigns, fifteen silvers and three bits, rounded up. The city guard arrested Fenris and Anders, charging them both with a range of offences including affray, assault with a deadly weapon (a bar stool), destruction of property and mental anguish to Corff the bartender. "That elf's tattoos were glowing bright blue, so they were! I thought he was going explode or something! I feared for my life, so I did."

The case was brought before magistrate Herschel Seward who, acting on behalf of Viscount Dumar, imposed a fine of ten gold sovereigns plus damages to both parties and a custodial sentence of one month in the dungeons. Fenris was heard to opine, "At least this cell is more comfortable than my old quarters in Tevinter."

Upon his release, Fenris sold a number of trinkets from Danarius' estate to an antiquities dealer hailing from Llommerryn and used the coin to settle his debts. Anders attempted to publish and sell his manifesto, having convinced himself that _everyone _in Kirkwall was eager to hear the plight of mages and his struggle against the templars. A dejected Anders sold a single copy of his manifesto to an illiterate elf from the alienage who used the pages to wipe himself after visiting the privy.

Desperate to raise the funds and clear his debt, Anders turned to a Carta usurer. Upon realising owing coin to the Carta was far _far_ worse than owing coin to the Viscount, Anders enlisted a reluctant Isabela to 'have a polite chat' with the usurer. The usurer's body was never found.

Æ

In the latter months of 9:34 Dragon, an elf closely fitting the physical description of the Hero of Ferelden arrived in Kirkwall. Shortly thereafter, corpses of known criminals were found throughout the city. In an alarming twist to the slayings, the bodies' tongues were cut out and stuck firmly to icy lamp posts with the following cryptic message pinned to the bodies, _Have you ever licked a lamp post in winter?_ Though the exact nature of the messages remains a mystery, speculation abounds. The slayings also prompted an alarming number of youngsters, generally boys to lick frozen lamp posts, resulting in painful injuries to lips and tongues.

Viscount Dumar ordered an investigation into the killings but it generated few leads and no arrests were made. The consensus among the common folk was, Hero or not, whoever was behind the deaths was performing a service long overdue and, since many of the criminals had ties to slaver rings, their deaths were considered 'no great loss.'

With the coming of spring and the winter melt, the killings ended as abruptly as the began and Kirkwall's criminal element breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Æ

Following Bartrand's theft of the lyrium idol and subsequent departure from Kirkwall, Varric assumed his brother's place as the head of Tethras family though he attended merchants' guild meetings as seldom as possible. As always, Varric's seemingly limitless supply of cousins, aunts and uncles handled the financial side of his various business ventures, much to the frustration of the Viscount's tax collectors. "Why can't you just pay what you owe, Varric?" Aveline asked of the dwarf on more than one occasion.

"_I _owe nothing, Captain. You should really speak to my cousins, _they're_ the ones holding the purse strings."

Æ

An amount of gold equalling the Bone Pit's annual profits was gambled, won, lost and won again many times over in countless games of wicked grace. A frantic Hubert called upon his partner on many occasions throughout the three years, requiring assistance with all manner of problems besetting the mine including but not limited to giant spider attacks, bandits preying on wagons supplying the mine, undead crawling from shallow graves and feasting on the brains of the miners and the miners pocketing the raw gold for themselves.

"I cannot believe this! Why do they steal from me?" An exasperated Hubert demanded.

"Well, I find paying people what they're worth is a good start. And perhaps you should rethink your policy regarding the cat 'o' nine tails."

"But how am I to motivate these lazy Fereldens without some means of persuasion?"

Æ

Gamlen Amell continued squandering what little coin he possessed either on questionable investment opportunities or at the Blooming Rose. "Am I not entitled to some enjoyment in my twilight years?" he demanded of Leandra when she drew attention to his visits to the brothel. Leandra said nothing and Gamlen's penchant for young brunettes and redheads continued unimpeded. One girl in particular was especially grateful for Gamlen's regular visits. "He's paying to keep my babe fed and clothed, so he is."

Æ

Firmly settled into her role as captain of the guard, Aveline worked tirelessly to restore honour to the guardsmen and expunge Jeven's corruption. Under her careful guidance, the men and women in her charge became bastions of law and order, respected throughout the city. Though she no longer carried his shield, preferring to give it a place of honour in the keep, Aveline kept the memory of Wesley alive and it sustained her throughout her time in Kirkwall. Over the years, Aveline allowed herself to form an unlikely bond with Isabela though the former ship captain seemed to take great delight in seeing just how far she could push the Guard-Captain and many credit Hawke as the catalyst for the friendship and for keeping them from killing each other.

Æ

During her time in Kirkwall, Merrill learned to find her way around the city's environs without the assistance of Varric's ball of twine, much to the relief of harried merchants among whose wares the twine often became tangled. As the years rolled by, the young dalish elf spent more of her time locked in her small home, attempting to fully restore the eluvian, often driving Bethany to distraction as she asked the Circle mage to lend her various tomes from the Gallows library in the hopes they would provide some solution.

Bethany attempted to explain that she couldn't simply hand out the books to whomever asked.

"Why ever not?" Merrill enquired, "Is not the purpose of a library full of books to be read?"

Merrill had a way about her, Bethany confided in her brother and it was impossible to stay angry at her for long. In the end, the two mages reached a compromise – Bethany agreed to remain vigilant for any texts regarding dalish magic and rituals, passing along copied parchments of whatever she found. Though Merrill never found quite what she was seeking, she _did_ find a ward especially attuned to rodents, forcing them away from her house. In the spring of 9:33 Dragon, residents of the alienage observed a veritable tide of rats and mice fleeing the area, much to the dismay of the local feral cat population.

In all, the three years following the ill-fated deep roads expedition was an oft-exciting time for Hawke and his companions, prompting Varric to ask, "How is it that one man can have so many things occur around them at once?"

"I guess I'm just that lucky, Varric," Hawke replied. "And besides, think of all the inspiration for tall tales I provide."

"I'll drink to that, Hawke."


	11. Chapter 11

_And you ruin me with the easiest touch  
>Tear my world apart now enough is enough<br>I've been up most of the night now my head's like a trainwreck  
>One more time<em>

Birds of Tokyo, _Trainwrecks_

Had someone, _anyone _pointed out the myriad civic duties and responsibilities inherent in his new role as Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke might well have decided to take a nice extended trip out into the wilderness with his companions rather than lead a counter-assault on the Keep and duel the Arishok. Once the chaos, panic and disorder surrounding the 'qunari incident' had subsided, Hawke found himself the centre of the nobility's attention – gala celebrations and banquets were held to commemorate his victory over the qunari, the nobility fawning over him, all but kissing the ground on which he walked.

More than once Hawke was tempted to point out to these same nobles just how eager they had been to deny the Ferelden refugees a place in Kirkwall. "I wonder what would have happened had we left Kirkwall behind and attempted to settle elsewhere?" Hawke pondered. "What would the nobles have done then?"

"Begged for mercy even as the qunari slaughtered them all," Fenris had replied.

The memory of this observation delivered via the elf's customary dry voice elicited a quiet chuckle from the Champion and a hiss of irritation from the tightly-wound artist painting Hawke's portrait. "Please remain perfectly still, serrah!" the artist snapped. The late Viscount's seneschal had commissioned a portrait to immortalise the Champion, requiring Hawke to sit immobile for hours at a time dressed in some ridiculous Hightown couture, all puffy sleeves and excessive gold embroidery. "Would it not be more appropriate for me to pose wearing the armour of the Champion?" Hawke had asked of Bran.

"Champion, the nobles have come to expect certain...protocol regarding such things. So no, the armour is not appropriate," Bran smoothly replied. He turned to the tightly-wound artist. "Proceed."

Three weeks later, Hawke was about ready to kill something. Still, the seemingly endless functions and portrait sittings distracted Hawke from Isabela. Rather, the _absence_ of Isabela. The pirate had departed with the Tome of Koslun only to return to Kirkwall, having experienced a change of heart. "This is _your_ damned influence, Hawke! I was halfway to Ostwick before I realised I had to come back."

_Perhaps I should have seen it coming, her leaving once more. _Hawke mused as he sat perfectly still. Almost as abruptly as she'd returned, Isabela had departed on a ship bound for parts unknown.

He sighed. He missed her and not just for the sex, either. It would have been easier for them both if all he'd wanted from Isabela was sex. Hawke wanted more, he wanted the kind of long-term togetherness Aveline and Donnic enjoyed. Well, maybe not _quite_ like that – all happily married but something stable. Hawke turned his gaze to the tightly-wound artist; the man's splotchy face was the colour of old brick, an unhealthy dull red. A closer look at the artist revealed a vein pulsing in the centre of his forehead. "Serrah," he said, biting off his words, teeth gleaming with saliva, "What part of 'sit perfectly still' do you _not _understand?"

Moving with quick, jerky motions, the artist tore off his paint-stained white smock and stormed out, shrill voice ringing from the Keep's walls, "I cannot work under these conditions!"

Hawke breathed a sigh of relief and slipped from the room, tugging at the stiff collar of his clothing as he went.

Æ

"I should have known I'd find you here," Bethany spoke quietly as she sat beside her brother, hands smoothing out her Circle robes. Bethany thought her brother cut a forlorn figure, sitting at the docks staring pensively at the horizon as various ships entered the harbour. Hawke turned to face Bethany, surprised to see her. "Sister," he greeted her. He took in her appearance – in addition to her robes, she still wore the same red scarf around her throat, the one Mother had given her in Lothering so long ago. "I'm sorry I haven't been to visit you recently."

Bethany waved this off. Even within the confines of the Gallows, news of her brother's victory over the Arishok had spread like wildfire and as a consequence of Garrett's sudden and meteoric rise to prominence, Bethany herself became a topic of gossip among the mages, all because the Champion was her brother. Bethany found it strange – she was no longer 'that girl who was an apostate;' she was 'the Champion's sister.' Though she did not begrudge her brother's fame, Bethany thought it would be nice for people to think of her as 'Bethany, Circle mage' at least once in a while.

"How long has it been?" she asked quietly.

"Months," Hawke replied. "I know I'm wasting my time in coming here but..." he trailed off, looked down at his gauntleted hands. "I can't get her out of my head, Bethany."

"I miss Isabela as well," Bethany said after a moment as she too took to watching the dockworkers load cargo and the sailors ready their vessels for departure. "Still," she said, gaze returning to her brother. "She came back once. She'll come back again."

"Do you really believe that?"

Bethany nodded. "She's a lot less selfish and shallow than she likes people to believe. You stood by her when she needed you, Brother. Like you stand by everyone else."

Bethany looked over her shoulder as her Templar escort, Ser Liam walked towards them. "It's time for you to return to the Gallows, Enchanter," he said, nodding his head in deference to Hawke. "Good day, Champion."

Hawke took his sister by the hand and together they stood. "Walk with me back to the Gallows?" Bethany invited. Hawke nodded. Bethany tilted her head to one side as she studied his armour. "Why so many sharp angular parts?" she asked, raising her hand to touch a triangular section jutting from the breastplate like the prow of a ship.

"I suppose it's to inspire fear in people," Hawke shrugged. "Why?"

"You look like you could use a hug and I don't much feel like stabbing myself on your breastplate," Bethany replied with a faint smile. Moving carefully, Hawke enfolded his sister in an embrace, inhaling the faint scent of soap from her hair. Bethany rested her head against the sun-warmed armour encasing Hawke's shoulder, the sharp triangular section pressing into her chest. As she released him and stepped back, Hawke's gaze returned once more to the sea. "She'll come back," Bethany murmured reassuringly. "Wait and see."

Æ

As he entered The Hanged Man, Hawke looked as always to the bar as he had countless times since the qunari had left Kirkwall, hoping to find _her_ leaning casually against the counter chatting with Corff, swigging whisky straight from the bottle. As always, he felt the pang of disappointment. Of course she wasn't there. Why _would _she be? Isabela clearly regretted having returned the first time and had probably decided to put Kirkwall behind her for good.

Part of Hawke knew he had to move on, or at least try. It should be easy, he thought as he crossed the stained wooden floor to his usual table. Clearly, Isabela had moved on. Flames, she was probably satisfying her own selfish urges even as he wasted time thinking about her. Varric nodded to Hawke as he sat opposite. "You're killing me, Hawke," the dwarf said in greeting. Hawke raised an eyebrow as his friend gestured for Norah to bring some pints. "All this moping around. You're almost as bad as Blondie after the templars came for Sunshine."

"At least Anders can still see Bethany," Hawke retorted as Norah arrived with the ales. She leaned quite far over the table as she placed a pint before Hawke and he couldn't help but glance down the bodice of her dress. "Ever since the nobility declared me Champion, I've had women all but throw themselves at me," he muttered as Norah sauntered away, hips swaying.

Varric grinned around his pint. "You know, Hawke, most men would be _glad_ of that." The dwarf placed the mug back on the scarred tabletop. "But you're better than that. You could have your pick of women right now but here you are, pining away after Rivaini."

"I am _not_ 'pining away,' Varric!" Hawke said forcefully.

The dwarf held his hands out in surrender, grinning. "So what do humans call it, then?"

"When she left with the Tome, it felt like I'd been gut-punched. It was like a betrayal," Hawke quietly explained.

"Like?" Varric echoed, his tone incredulous. "It _was _a betrayal, Hawke. Look, I understand how you feel about Rivaini but what she did was even worse than what Bartrand did to us in the deep roads."

"How so?"

Varric leaned forward, one hand tight around his mug. "Because she put the entire city at risk." The merchant leaned back, hand releasing its death grip on the mug. "On the upside, she _did_ come back just in time."

Hawke nodded. "That's what keeps me awake at night, Varric. She left, she came back, she left again."

"And the one thing you're holding onto is that she'll come back?" Varric replied. When Hawke silently nodded, Varric added, "I still call that pining away, Hawke."

Somehow, Hawke managed a laugh. Varric drained the rest of his pint. "Listen Hawke. You need to get out of Kirkwall for a little while, clear your head. Don't worry," he added, seeing his friend about to protest, "If Rivaini shows up, you'll be the first to hear of it."

Hawke nodded, rising from the table. "You're probably right. I'll head over to Hightown. I'm sure some disaster or other has befallen the Bone Pit by now."

It was no great surprise to Hawke that Hubert had indeed brought tidings of woe from the mine outside Kirkwall. "What is it this time?" Hawke asked, rubbing his forehead with a gauntleted hand. "Dragons? Giant spiders? Undead? Undead giant spiders riding dragons?"

"No, no!" Hubert replied, attempting to placate his partner. "Nothing as terrible as that. Those lazy doglords claim there are 'noises' coming from the mine and refuse to work! Please, Champion, go to the mine and-"

Hawke cut him off. "Find out what's causing these noises, put a stop to it and tell the miners to get back to work so you can rake in more profits?" The Champion turned and headed away from the market district without awaiting a reply. A change in wind direction seemed to carry Hubert's parting words to him, "Jumped up doglord."

Æ

Varric had been correct when he suggested leaving the city would clear Hawke's head. At least as far as a certain sailor was concerned though Hawke thought it would be a long time before he could close his eyes without once more seeing what he'd found in the depths of the mine. Hawke had traced the source of the 'noises' the miners had reported to a small cave inside the Bone Pit where a number of apostates had taken refuge. Apostates apparently so overwhelmed with elation at having escaped the Gallows they'd decided to partake in an orgy to celebrate.

_At least they weren't engaging in human sacrifice, thank the Maker_ was the thought running through Hawke's mind as he pushed open the tavern's door. And stopped motionless for a moment as though a paralysis glyph had been inscribed upon the stained floor. Isabela stood at the bar, ignoring the rabble around her. Though he'd long awaited this moment, even imagined various ways in which the encounter might play out, Hawke was struck with indecision – should he stride straight up to the lying, thieving wench, shove her against the bar and have her or just wander in and pretend not to see her? _Oh, Isabela, is that you? I almost didn't see you standing there, oh lying, cheating snake I seem to be falling in love with. Silly me._

In the end, after what seemed like an age, Hawke lifted his right foot, stepped forward and made straight for the bar, brushing past Norah as he went. "Isabela," he began, heralding what he hoped would be a reunion of sorts. The Champion swallowed, aware his heart was beating harder than normal. She turned to him without meeting his gaze, an indecipherable expression on her face. "Hawke," she replied, the single word giving no hint as to her thoughts. She lifted her empty mug and glanced momentarily at Corff, requesting a refill.

"So...you're back?" Hawke said after a moment, anything to break a silence fast moving from uncomfortable to freakishly awkward. _Brilliant conversation starter, Garrett!_ He chided himself. _Obviously she's back else you wouldn't be standing at the bar making an ass of yourself!_ The Champion swallowed, breathed deeply through his nose and tried again. "Isabela-" he halted as she cut him off.

"Hawke, don't. Whatever heart-warming, emotional thing you're about to say, don't."

Ignoring her, Hawke went on, "I've missed you."

Isabela snorted and knocked back half her drink in one swallow. "You miss the sex," she countered.

"That as well. What you did during the qunari attack, I'm proud you of you. It was the right thing to do."

The pirate leaned her lower back against the bar, propping herself up with her elbows. "It was also the dumb thing to do. I had the relic! I should have kept running!" She sighed and finished her drink.

"I couldn't have saved the city without you," Hawke said.

"Bullshit," she retorted. "You could have stormed the keep and slaughtered every qunari in your way if you had to. You and Aveline. I mean, look at her, she's a woman-shaped battering ram!" Isabela pushed herself away from the bar. "Face it," she began, meeting his gaze for the first time since he arrived. "You and I have nothing in common any more. You're the Champion and I'm just a lying, thieving snake."

Placing his hands gently but firmly on her shoulders, Hawke's eyes burned with emotion as he replied, "You may be a lying, thieving snake but you're _my_ lying, thieving snake, damn it!" The hands moved from Isabela's shoulders to cup the sides of her face and he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her long and hard. Isabela voiced a low moan as her tongue slid in and out of his mouth, arms locking around the back of his neck. The kiss ended, both participants breathing hard. Isabela chuckled and wiped her mouth. "I so do love it when you come over all possessive, Hawke."

**Author's Note:** Two images in my mind led to this chapter - Hawke at the docks waiting for Isabela's ship and Hawke posing for an artist.


End file.
